


Pas de Deux in the Upper West Side

by wilteddaisy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, New York City, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 03:31:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17614613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilteddaisy/pseuds/wilteddaisy
Summary: Remus Lupin is a principal dancer with the New York City Ballet. A lead role comes up for grabs in the company's newest ballet and Remus is determined to have it. But only when Sirius Black — oozing talent, charisma and all the elements of a world-class distraction — joins the company does it hang in the balance.





	1. Tchaikovsky Pas de Deux

**Author's Note:**

> _For the prompt:_  
>  **Prompt 130:** Remus POV. Remus is a ballet dancer, best male in his company until Sirius Black shows up with his leather jacket and scuffed combat boots. Sirius is wild and rule-breaking but dances everyone out of the water. They have a rivalry, both of them competing for the lead in an upcoming ballet (writer’s choice). Eventually Sirius seduces Remus in an attempt to throw him off of his game but Remus ends up getting the part AND the guy in the end.
> 
> Thank you to the moon and back to [Purplechimera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplechimera/pseuds/Purplechimera) for the much-needed beta! <3 Any inaccuracies/mistakes are my own. 
> 
> This work contains a decent number of technical dance terms, the understanding of which is nonessential to following the story! Please don't let them deter you :-) I also mention several ballets/variations throughout, which, if not "original", have videos linked in the end notes for each chapter in case you want to visualize the dances (or fall into the same hole as I did while writing this) :')

Mid-September. _Tchaikovsky Pas de Deux_ , the second ballet of the night at the David H Koch Theater. Sweat soaks the length of Remus’ spine, not that anyone can tell through the thick blouson he’s buttoned into. For a ten-minute piece, it pushes him a lot, and he fights back. He’s just returned to the stage. From the wings stage left, he’d watched Lily land flawlessly from her fouetté sequence, and now they’re in for a series of fish dives. Lily, ever the daring one, claims it’s her favorite partnering step. Remus loathes it. The effect is jaw-dropping, gasp-inducing, all as intended, but what Lily calls a thrill — leaping into the air, nose-diving toward the floor only for Remus to catch her a hair’s breadth of a second before she makes contact and dip her with fluid grace, hesitating on his action long enough to hold the breaths of the audience — Remus simply dreads. Through his gritted smile, he can’t help but flash back to one of his first days of rehearsing the pas. He danced it with Alice, who was bright-eyed and sprightly and riding the high of her recent promotion to soloist, and who also dived far too low far too eagerly and slipped from Remus’ sloppy grip to brain herself on the floor of the studio.

She was fine, made it out with a bruised brow that stage makeup had no issue concealing. Makeup couldn’t do much for her dignity, though, nor for Remus’ embarrassment.

Nevertheless, he and Lily are as in tandem as they always are. With a secret but pleased squeal that only Remus and possibly the percussionists in the back of the pit orchestra can hear, Lily enters her final arabesque after the fish dives, Remus’ hands at her waist. Her giddiness never fades though they’ve danced this countless a time. The triumphant music roars in his ears, the silly bow on his shirt feels heavier than ever though Lily is light as a feather as she jumps again into his arms, peach skirts fluttering. He carries her offstage above his head, her leg extended in a salute to the heavens.

In the wings, he sets her down on her feet and she makes not a sound, not even on the hard toes of her pointe shoes. She earns that silence pummeling them against the hard floor for ten minutes pre-show. The applause is thunderous and swells in waves, muffled by the thick curtain gliding down. Lily squeezes Remus’ cheeks and plants a kiss to his sweaty chin before she runs off, weaving between stagehands and the pair of dancers warming up for the next pas. Whereas Remus is finished for the night, she still has _Symphony in C_ and a white tutu to wiggle into. Remus swipes the moisture from his upper lip, and he’s hardly out of the wing before he collides bodily with a figure in head to toe black, camouflaged against the inky curtains and the darkness of backstage. He must be a stagehand, though he’s awfully unaware of his surroundings for one. Remus takes one look at him, at the roguish long hair and arched eyebrow, and the wide-eyed look he receives in return should mean there’s an apology on the tip of this man’s tongue. But nothing comes, at least not quite fast enough for Remus’ current patience threshold. He huffs a disdainful “Watch where you’re going,” and strides in the direction of his dressing room. It’s… a bit harsh, maybe. The stage crew spend just as long at the theater as him, oftentimes longer, and are essential to the show running smoothly. Sure, there’s a pang of regret, but he’s a little too exhausted to fully feel it. Lily and James’ fucking was particularly rowdy last night, he’s under an layer of makeup that’s gone half-crusty and half-pasty, and will likely be dripping black eyeliner tears from his caruncles until he makes it home because he ran out of makeup wipes the day prior.

Even so, Remus isn’t heartless. He glances over his shoulder to apologize only to find that the stagehand is gone. He turns in a circle, allows himself to feel like a fool. The backstage PA system crackles to life. _“Dancers to backstage for the third ballet of the night,_ Stravinsky Violin Concerto _.”_

Remus scuttles out of the way, into the hall and to his dressing room.

***

Remus Lupin is a principal dancer with the New York City Ballet. Born and raised in Liverpool until the age of thirteen, an audition for the School of American Ballet then earned him a scholarship that put him and his scarce belongings on a plane against his mother’s wishes — _“But I didn’t_ get _a scholarship from the Royal Ballet School, mum”_ — to live with his rather sickly aunt on his father’s side in Newark, New Jersey.

For four years he commuted to the city by train and back to Newark by evening, dicey street lamps flickering on dark-skied walks home, dance bag clutched to his chest. At seventeen, he was invited to join the company, _the_ New York City Ballet company as an apprentice, and ascended within a year to membership in their corps de ballet. Sure, he’d been onstage before as an obnoxious Fritz and a Candy Cane child in _The Nutcracker_ , or feather-hatted and blending into the background like an extra even in an over-embellished waistcoat in _Sleeping Beauty_ , but at eighteen, he was cast to partner alongside then-principal dancer Marlene McKinnon in a neck-breaking _Tarantella_ that pleased even the scrutinous, tasteful eye of Alastor Moody, infamous New York Times dance critic. Two short years on he was promoted to soloist, and after another year was made a principal dancer at twenty-two years old, now twenty-three.

He works a tireless six days a week — the company has only Mondays off — classes and rehearsals by day, performances by night. At the close of a long day, he returns to the comforts of a two-bedroom flat in the Upper West Side that he shares with Lily Evans, a longtime companion from his days at SAB and also a young principal at the company. He might as well have two roommates, however, for all the nights that Lily’s boyfriend spends at their place.

A self-proclaimed wayward son, James Potter met Lily at Columbia University five years ago when he was enrolled full-time and she just barely part-time in between performances on nights off. She studied Neuroscience and he’d been a Financial Economics major up until two years in when he chose to _rebel_ and drop out to pursue a career as a singer-songwriter. Though Lily and James had only just begun seeing each other at the time of the reckless decision, Remus saw enough of James — clawing his way nonchalantly albeit rather desperately past Lily’s friend zone — to befriend him to a degree. James veered his career trajectory from Wall Street to the stars, expecting outrage from his Columbia alumnus (and generous donor) parents, but was outraged himself to find that Euphemia and Fleamont were delighted at the possibility of _an artist in the family_. To this day, Remus thinks this hilarious. For almost a whole year James was determined to make it on his own, to renounce his short-lived Ivy League education, trust fund, and millionaire parents and to consume exclusively surrealist art and vaporwave and the cheap alcohol and pot a minimum wage job at Five Guys could afford him, to hop from buddy’s couch to buddy’s couch to, dependably, Lily and Remus’ couch, or Lily’s bed when he was fortunate enough. For a short while James teetered on the edge of alcoholism, eating Lily and Remus out of house and home until, predictably, Lily sparred with him and penned him a _pathetic fuckbag_ for the thirty-seventh time. That had James crawling back to the Potters. Within a few months, he cleaned up his act, moved into an apartment of his own (which Remus swears he’s never truly unpacked, he still sleeps at theirs every night), and wrote an indie-folk EP. His parents funded its recording. He now has over 100,000 followers on Spotify and opened Arcade Fire’s east coast dates during their 2017 tour.

But that’s just James.

Remus rises early on Thursday morning. Evidence of James having spent the night lies in the worn chukkas by the door. Lily is still asleep; she has a tendency to arrive barely in time for their ten-thirty class. Remus, on the other hand, has grown over the years to be very possessive of his barre spot, where he’ll stand for the first hour of class. Standing in the wrong place in the wrong light around the wrong people can break his mood, and when his mood is off, he can’t help but nitpick everything he does to the point of wanting to put his fist through a wall. The abundance of mirrors in the studio lend themselves particularly to nitpicking.

He gets to class early. Remus insists upon walking twenty minutes from their apartment to the theater, the home of the company, whether it’s sweltering or cold enough to freeze his brows off. Mid-September in the city is kind to him, though, chilly and crisp and smelling a bit more like fallen leaves and damp than the nauseating hot garbage of summer.

Once he’s signed himself in, he ascends to the fifth floor studio and settles on the floor by the barre, close to the piano but with enough room to fit a few in between, namely Lily and Dorcas. As he switches out his sneakers for his ballet slippers, he shuts his eyes, runs through his rehearsal schedule for the day — he should have enough time to nip to the gym during lunch, perhaps go for a swim — he’s doing Balanchine’s Diamonds pas de deux that evening, will have to rehearse it with Mary, and of course he’ll have rehearsal for Marlene’s new work. Spreading his legs to roll over his hips and lay against his stomach on the floor, chin upon his hands, he drinks in the empty studio, late morning light catching on the scuff marks and dust on the floor. He rolls out his ankles, points his toes, looks to the door at the sound of a familiar voice down the hall.

It’s the turn of the company’s ballet mistress in chief, Minerva McGonagall, to lead their morning class. It’s precisely her plucky tones that echo their way to Remus, and he opens his eyes, pushes himself upright just in time for her to sweep into the room, tartan shawl wrapping her shoulders, gray-streaked hair in its immovable high bun. She isn’t alone. McGonagall isn’t tall by any means, but the man beside her is, or then just happens to look so beside her. With dark glossy hair that falls into glinting eyes, dark stubble on a shapely jaw, he’s dressed in black from head to toe, down to his black… dance shoes.

Remus pushes himself upright.

“Now, I hope you’ll remember how we got here, because it’s in this hall of studios that you’ll be spending much of your time,” McGonagall says. She rests her hand on the man’s arm, urges him further inside, and gives Remus a pleased smile as she spots him. “Oh, wonderful. Lupin, why don’t you join us over here?”

Remus says nothing but rises soundlessly to his feet, brushing the dust from his sweatpants. With his hands on his hips, he saunters over to the pair, determinedly avoiding the eyes of the man he’s quite sure he inadvertently met not twelve hours ago.

“Good morning,” he says slowly, rolling on and off of the balls of his feet.

“Sirius, this is Remus Lupin, he’s one of our —”

“Principals, I know.” The man — Sirius — smiles at Remus. Remus can tell from the corners of his eyes. “I’ve done my research, Minerva. Do you think so little of me?”

Remus dares to look at him.

McGonagall chuckles. “Sirius is joining us from the Royal Ballet. He’ll be taking Leon’s spot for the time being.”

“Sirius Black?” blurts Remus, but Sirius steamrolls nonchalantly over him.

“I didn’t mean to get in your way last night,” Sirius murmurs, voice low and rumbling and ridiculously posh. The corner of his lip twitches. He smiles again.

Remus considers his memory to be decent. Naturally, he can’t forget the name of the boy who won the Prix de Lausanne, prestigious international youth dance competition, at only age fifteen. Remus had been his same age. And this was eight years ago, but Remus still recalls watching Sirius’ final performances with his nose glued to the screen of his aunt’s ancient iMac G3 in the dead of night while she snored away, fluid filling her lungs. Sirius’ style, even back then, was unprecedented. The Prix was known for churning out technically perfect winners, those with the prettiest feet, the highest jumps. Sure, Sirius’ technique was admirable, but he danced an odd, _old_ jazzy variation that interspersed triple pirouettes with playful knee wobbles and sidesteps. And he did it all with the smug, grinning air of a prodigy. The honor of winning gold pipelined Sirius to training at the Royal Ballet School.

“Have you two met already?” asks McGonagall with keen interest, but she’s distracted as Flitwick, the rehearsal pianist, bustles into the room with his heavy briefcase of sheet music in tow.

“Mhm,” says Sirius at the moment that Remus answers, “Not quite.” While Sirius’ brows rise, Remus looks at him pointedly and supplies, “I didn’t exactly make the best first impression.”

Sirius shrugs easily. “Not to worry. I’d already formed my first impression.”

To Remus this sounds rather ominous, but McGonagall bats at Sirius’ elbow without blinking an eye. “Class will be starting soon. You should get warmed up. I trust you received your schedule?”

Sirius shakes his iPhone at McGonagall. “Somewhere in ‘ere, I should hope.” He then heads toward the barre, leaving Remus alone beside McGonagall to stare after him.

She frowns. “Lupin, you’re dawdling.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Sirius takes Lily’s spot, or what should be Lily’s honorary spot to anyone but newcomer Sirius Black. Everyone knows to leave it open for her to come skidding in at thirty seconds past the start of class. She runs on James-time.

Corps dancers trickle into the massive studio. Remus wishes, immaturely, that he could pretend Sirius hadn’t seen him roosting where he’d been and could assume a spot elsewhere at the barre, but that would not only set him up for failure for the day — _sour mood_ — but make him look like a shy fool or a snob. He plants himself on the floor beside Sirius, whose thumbs fly over the keypad on his phone.

It’s rare enough that NYCB usurps a dancer from another company, let alone from abroad. Remus’ eyes flicker over Sirius’ profile. “Does Leon know that injuring his ankle meant handing over his contract to _Sirius Black_?” he asks idly.

Sirius doesn’t look up from his phone. “You don’t have to say my name like that.”

Remus blinks. “I didn’t say it _like_ anything.”

“Uh huh.” Sirius smiles to himself.

Lily Evans, as aforementioned, skids into the studio. McGonagall rolls her eyes. She’s already in her slippers, must’ve put them on at home and stuffed her slippered toes into her shoes, anticipating lateness. “Oh my fucking god!” she screeches, and initially Remus thinks it’s because she’s been robbed of her barre spot, but her face is bright with glee. Her arms are open, as if in second position, her myriad of bags slipping off her shoulders. “ _Black_!”

Sirius whips around. “Red, Red, Red!” Next Remus knows, Sirius is on his feet and across the room, whisking Lily up into his arms.

The younger girls in the corps giggle. Remus stares. Benjy Fenwick throws his shit down behind Remus at the barre. “Who the hell’s that?” he whispers, squatting down to Remus’ level.

Remus fiddles with the cap on his water bottle and clears his throat. “Sirius Black.”

Benjy is unfazed.

Arms around each other, Lily’s belongings dangling from her bony elbows — she drops a pointe shoe from her bag that Sirius swipes up — the pair joins Remus at the barre.

“Good morning, early bird,” says Lily and set down her bags with a series of thuds.

He feels like McGonagall. “You two know each other?”

“Oh, yeah,” Lily says, unraveling her scarf. Sirius regards Remus through Lily’s curtain of hair, which she’s yet to tie back. “Met way back whenever — how old were we?”

“Twelve,” says Sirius.

“We did the summer program at the Paris Opera School together. And — oh, remember last year, when I guest-performed Sugar Plum at the Pacific Northwest Ballet for a week? Black was there, too. My _Cavalier_ ,” she says dreamily, hand held to her heart, and Sirius winks. “And when I was a guest at the Royal Ballet, too. Just… a number of times.”

Remus hadn’t expected an anthology. “I had no idea.”

Lily knots her hair efficiently, gives Sirius a backward glance. “Completely fucking forgot it was this week you were coming.”

“Pliés,” McGonagall calls, and Flitwick’s fingers dance the piano to life.

Black and fucking Red. Remus almost laughs.

***

In Remus’ book, class goes surprisingly well. Everyone goggles over Sirius, cheers when he lands a triple tour en l’air that nobody asked for — _really, it wasn’t in McGonagall’s combination_ — and Lily is particularly buddy-buddy with him, which is new to Remus considering he hadn’t known of their friendship until that morning. Lily is small, too, so watching her punch playfully at Sirius’ broad chest is a somewhat comical sight.

It’s not Sirius Black’s presence, however, that has Remus on a high after class. He learned long ago that he dances best when he’s out to impress someone. It’s a different feeling than being under pressure — for Remus, diamonds are _not_ made under pressure — but rather it’s the fresh set of eyes. It’s when they’ve yet to see him dance and give him a chance to prove himself worthy of their attention, be it a choreographer or a guest teacher. McGonagall mutters the offhanded _Good, Mr. Lupin_ more that class than she has in the past month. Of course, it’s not McGonagall Remus dances for, so technically, it must boil down to Sirius Black’s presence.

Three years ago, with Remus still in the corps, the New York City Ballet played host to a guest choreographer from the Mariinsky — Sergey something-or-other — who set out to choreograph a short original ballet to snippets of music from Kubrick film scores. Despite being in the corps, Sergey chose Remus over several male principals for his male lead. And Remus is certain it’s because he danced his arse off for him when Sergey observed their morning class pre-auditions.

Sure, he sucked his dick, too. But after he was given the role.

Remus is able to scarf down a half sandwich before Diamonds rehearsal with Mary and they iron out the corners for their performances that week. He runs a few blocks to the gym where time escapes him and has him returning to the theater smelling of the chlorine he didn’t have time to shower off before his rehearsal for Marlene’s _As Yet Untitled But Unapologetically Untraditional And Queer Ballet._ While the music is still heavily in the works, a full orchestral score is being arranged by none other than James. Months ago, Lily put them in touch. James was thirsty for a new project, to branch out, and Marlene was in need of unconventional and new original music.

Former principal dancer Marlene McKinnon, in the months following her and Remus’ lauded _Tarantella_ pas, retired at twenty-seven after spending several consecutive seasons as a candidate at the company’s choreographic institute. After the success of the first ballet she won a grant to choreograph, and the following several ballets to boot, the company installed her as a resident choreographer.

Since Leon Davies’ departure three weeks ago, Remus has rehearsed his piece in Marlene’s ballet with a revolving door of partners; Benjy — _“Too short,”_ Marlene shouted from her seat in the fifteenth row of the theater as she observed them onstage, with Benjy still present — and Avery, who Remus always found to be a dickhead anyway. None are up to par for her _dream casting_ , as she calls it. Remus finds it baffling that he could belong in anyone’s dream casting, as for all that he excels in technique and also likes Marlene, she still scares the living daylights out of him.

She demanded that they rehearse in the theater that afternoon so she and the artistic director could sort out backdrops after Marlene decided a full-on rainbow was far too garish. Remus traipses onto stage, rolling out his ankles as he goes. He shouldn’t be shocked to find it empty save for the distinct figures of Sirius Black and Marlene, sitting on the stage’s edge with their legs dangling, chatting amicably.

He’s quiet enough to not draw their attention until he’s standing on Marlene’s other side.

“You’re late, Lupin,” Marlene remonstrates, giving his slippered toes a sweet pat. Sirius’ eyes drag up to his own as well.

“Sorry.” Remus stares at Sirius. “What’s he —” _Hey, dumbass. You could stand to be a bit more polite._ Remus smiles tightly. “What’re you doing here?” He directs the question at Sirius.

Black swings his legs back and forth, his big, elegant hands clasped in his lap. He’s tied his obnoxiously long hair — for a dancer, thinks Remus — back. The spotlights hit the highs of his cheekbones. Remus wonders bitterly if the guy’s even got a bad angle. “I’m filling Leon’s shoes.” He piques an eyebrow. “Remember?”

Of course. Leon’s spot, which was once opposite Remus. Marlene pats Sirius on the shoulder. “Don’t look so skeptical, Lupin. We’ll try this out for today, mark it, see if he’s a good fit. He’s tall enough, at least. Stronger than Benjy. He’ll support you better.” Marlene then smirks at Sirius. “Doesn’t hurt that he’s got a nice face.”

Remus’ nostrils flare, and he wonders how they’ve managed to become acquainted this fast. “Right.” _Support_. Marlene’s ballet aims to subvert the gender norms of partnering set in stone long ago, to have a woman in a man’s stead, providing the support their partner needs to penché or throwing them for a leap, to have a man complete the balancing feats for which ballerinas are so famed. This would push gently at the boundaries of tradition, but it’s not as if it hasn’t been done before. Alas, it’s Marlene, so her brand of nonconformism comes with a side of erotic, romantic, powerplay-infused, avant-garde choreography, which Remus is to dance alongside Sirius Black. _With_ Sirius Black.

“He looks like he’s gonna be sick.” Sirius chuckles, rising to his feet.

Remus snorts. “That’s just my natural pallor.”

Marlene hums absently as she gets up and struts into the wings. “Lupin has to get spray tans for the stage in winter.”

Sirius smiles at this. “Don’t worry. I won’t drop you.” He seems to size Remus up, which might’ve made Remus self-conscious five years ago, but it won’t now. He knows he’s fit — physically, at least. Lean. He’s a fucking principal. “Then again, you’ll probably be heavier than you look. Twice Red’s weight, maybe.”

Red. _Lily_. Remus suppresses a shudder. Marlene wanders out into the audience. “Where the fuck’s Potter?” she shouts, stares at the unoccupied piano in the pit. This Remus ignores, because it’s essentially a rhetorical question.

Hands on his hips, Remus looks offstage. He and Sirius are only a few feet apart. “If you drop me and I rupture my Achilles, have you got a clone to join the company and take my spot?”

Sirius frowns thoughtfully. They both watch, standing centerstage, as the theater doors bust open and James flies in, descending the aisle toward the pit, clad in a baseball cap and a shirt with cut off sleeves. He has a stack of papers clutched to his chest.

Sirius remarks, “Well, no, but that’d be something, wouldn’t it? I could get off on watching my two selves perform this.” He leaves Remus with that and approaches the edge of the stage. Remus resolutely does not gape at his comment or at his perfect muscular ass. “Is that who I think it is?”

A few of James’ papers flutter to the floor by the piano, and he’s gathering them under Marlene’s close supervision as he looks upward. He scans the stage from behind thick-rimmed glasses, gaze coming to a halt on Sirius. He rises to full height, sheet music still littered about him. “The man, the myth, the legend?”

Sirius barks a laugh. “Could say the same about you.”

James grins. “Dude, I _was_ saying it about it me.”

Sirius claps his hands together laughingly. “I like you already, mate. Please tell me I’m not bonding with a different musician named Potter, one who isn’t dating Lily Evans?”

James shrugs and plops onto the piano bench, smile wry. “Nah, that’d be me. Still can’t tell you how, though.” James folds his arms over the piano. “And you’re Sirius fucking Black, aren’t you? I’ve heard —”

“Can you socialize on your own time?” Marlene asks abruptly. “You’re _late_ , Potter. I only have the stage for an hour.”

James and Sirius make eye contact, nod tersely, and James goes to shuffling at his sheet music while Sirius retreats toward Remus.

“Black, you watched the videos I sent you, yeah?” Marlene yells, then produces a microphone to successfully command them from a distance. The woman can project, but it’s a massive theater.

Sirius gives her a thumbs-up.

Marlene’s smile is coy. Remus can tell, even from the stage. “Fine. Just a walkthrough, then. Mark the arms, from the top. On my count, Potter.”

Remus shakes out his hands, shuts his eyes. Then he turns toward Sirius.

“Wrong way, Lupin,” he scolds playfully. _Right. Of course._ Remus turns his back to him.

The dance begins with him and Sirius entangled in an intimate position, Sirius right on his heels, warm body pressed all along Remus’ back. Long-fingered hands on Remus’ biceps. He’s warm, so fucking warm, and he mutters for Remus to _Ease up_ , and he tries. It’s completely unreasonable, _he_ is, as is this disliking he’s taken to Sirius Black. It’s not as if he’s done anything wrong. He’s simply a handsome British anomaly in an American ballet company. And a bit of a childhood idol.

As Sirius’ cheek lays against the back of Remus’ neck, Remus tilts his head forward, arms crossing his chest, fingers splayed over the soft backs of Sirius’ hands.

“I do like the look of that,” echoes Marlene’s voice over the speakers. “Alright. One, two, three, four, two, two, three, four…”

The piano tinkles to life under James’ fingertips. Though he typically performs on guitar, he’s a masterful pianist like Remus has never known. The run-through is uneventful and they walk through the steps, but Marlene told them to mark the arms, so it’s more often than not that Sirius’ hands take his waist, that they join fingers, that Remus’ arms catch under Sirius’ to hold him up, eventually lower him to the floor. Sirius makes a few wrong turns, but given that he’s only studied the dance from a video, he keeps up pretty damn well.

They stand apart as the music fades out. “Nice,” says Marlene absently. She scribbles into her notepad. “You willing to try it full-out, Sirius?”

“Think I’ll manage,” he calls.

“Perfect.” They resume their starting position, and Remus thinks already that the back of his shirt is a bit damp. They’ve hardly moved. He can feel Sirius breathe against him, feel his chest rise and fall against Remus’ spine. “Alright. The year is 1882. You’re both poets, writers, repressed souls, Whitman and Wilde at a time when a man could be imprisoned for laying with another man. And — you guessed it — you’re in _love_!”

Sirius laughs loudly into Remus’ skin, which only has him bristling.

“Show me some _love_ , boys!” Marlene counts down again for James.

Remus is out of breath before they can even delve into the dance. Sirius’ hands are warm and sure as they waltz together, his eyes are intense, he holds Remus perfectly steady in his turn, lifts him with shocking ease. The crescendo of the piano swirls like hot, thick smoke under Remus’ skin, through his throat and head, dizzying him, and Sirius’ hands _burn_ , it _hurts_ where they dig into his muscles because Remus is so bloody tense, rigid all over. It’s when the music grows tragic and sharp that Remus is to run to Sirius and be lifted above his head, his hands on Sirius’ shoulders and Sirius’ on his hips, that he jumps a bit too low and his grasp on Sirius is too lax. Sirius’ hands grapple for purchase on his body  and he head-butts Remus’ stomach, forcing him to tumble out of his hands, nearly trip backward onto his arse. James cuts the music short.

“What the fuck was that, Lupin?” Sirius hisses, pawing black flyaways from his face.

Marlene’s voice crackles over the speakers. Or her breath does, and she sighs, sighs for a damn long time until words finally come. “Oh. That was terrible. That was… _so_ terrible. Not just the slip.” Remus shamefully looks toward the blonde dot in the audience that is Marlene, simply to avoid the gaze of Sirius Black. “Lupin, you’re too tense, darling. This is supposed to be passionate, you need to _give_ yourself to him. So much of this choreo depends on you not relying on your own balance, but his.” She pauses. “Sirius, that was quite good. I liked the emotion.” Remus tries not to scoff. Emotion? All Sirius has to do is _brood_ , his resting face, and he gets Marlene’s stamp of approval. ”But you two together? The chemistry right now? Zero. It’s at level zero. My panties are dry as the Sahara.”

Remus’ fingers sink into his hips. Somewhere behind him, Sirius Black snickers.

“You had chemistry with Leon,” deadpans Marlene.

Remus nearly chokes. “Leon was — he was my fiancé!” he protests.

“What?” mutters Sirius, dumbfounded.

Marlene grabs at her curls with her unoccupied hand. “You split up _months_ ago!”

“That doesn’t mean the chemistry just up and goes _poof_.”

Sirius’ hand touches his shoulder, and Remus twitches away from the grip. “You were engaged?” asks Sirius lowly.

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

Sirius retracts the hand. Quietly, he says, “Of course.”

“Fair enough. Run it again, please.” Marlene kicks up her feet on the next row of seats. “Drop those shoulders, Lupin. Relax or he’ll never get you into the air.”

Remus sighs, rolls out his shoulders. Sirius pastes himself again to his back. The second time isn’t as bad as the first; Remus still feels as if his muscles have been replaced by lead, and Sirius most definitely notices, but they make it through the rocky lift where it all went downhill. That time, as James’ keystrokes are fading and Remus is lowering Sirius to the ground, his silken hair and heavy, warm head against the crook of Remus’ neck, Marlene squawks, “Lupin, your lover is on his deathbed! At least _try_ to look upset!” The way Sirius dances before the climax, with fluid movements, musicality, dark brows furrowed, it’s more a beautiful downfall than the sudden and very obvious death of _The Nutcracker_ ’s Mouse King. Sirius is dying and Remus can’t even do it justice, simply can’t emote enough. Whatever is screwing up his muscles so tight must have also locked away his theatricality.

After several more run-throughs, they have to clear off the stage for another dress rehearsal. Remus snatches up his bag and inexplicably storms backstage like a moody child. He hopes Sirius Black is too busy hugging James for the first time to notice. “Don’t make me re-cast you!” Marlene threatens over the mic. He knows she wouldn’t, but the words still sit wrong with him. Once he reaches the vending machine, in desperate need of a granola bar, he finds his shoulders are still clenched tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ballets mentioned:  
> [Tchaikovsky Pas de Deux](https://youtu.be/VQn8QVyEG9Q) (Lily/Remus)  
> [Symphony in C](https://youtu.be/Fn1ZVGp0plc) (Lily)  
> [Stravinsky Violin Concerto](https://youtu.be/0BaWNHJiL1o)  
> [Tarantella](https://youtu.be/sGHY9Gj9qZQ) (Marlene/Remus)  
> [Jewels: Diamonds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWCyY6pPdB8) (Mary/Remus)


	2. All talk

Remus has heard whispers.

If McGonagall had it her way, she would be the first to share before the truth became whispers. But there are pesky sneaky dancers in the corps and there are mouthy soloists who simply happen to be passing by the right place at the right time, so when the words _Romeo and Juliet_ are first uttered, it takes mere hours for the whole company to know of the rumor.

McGonagall informs them the morning after Remus’ disastrous rehearsal with Sirius Black that they will be bringing _Romeo and Juliet_ back to the stage after four years. Remus leans against the barre beside Lily, on the other side of whom stands Sirius. He’s spent the past five minutes rhapsodizing about James, how glad he is that they  finally met, how he truly and firmly believes that they are soul-bonded brothers of some sort. His James-blabber is ephemeral, though, because McGonagall’s announcement has other thoughts entering everyone’s minds.

She holds up a hand to quiet the room. “Before you make your assumptions, I want you all to realize that this may be a controversial decision, given the roots of its choreography.” It was only earlier that year that the company’s old ballet master in chief, Albus Dumbledore, swiftly retired when allegations of sexual misconduct and intimidation toward male and female dancers alike surfaced, ones that went under the radar for years. After all, he long ago succeeded Mr. Balanchine himself; Dumbledore had been a stronghold in the company as long as Remus could remember, with the authority to make or break a dancer’s exposure and longevity in the company. When the truth began to break, Remus pressed Lily about her own experiences, but she assured him that she was unaffected. Remus wanted to believe her, even thought to reassure himself that there was hardly a way Lily would keep it under wraps were she coerced that way, but he could never know for sure, could he?

Following Dumbledore’s retirement and Minerva McGonagall’s ascent to the role of mistress in chief, all the dancers respectively dealt with the guilt of bystanders’ silence or the freedom of public knowledge. But it was a hurdle they all jumped together.

The company’s original _Romeo + Juliet_ was choreographed by Dumbledore himself. To say the least about his production, the details he included in its visual storytelling captured certain unacceptable and antiquated societal norms that would have even the audience gasping — Lord Capulet open-handedly striking his young daughter, for one. “And I am telling you this because I feel it is inherent to get an early start on relearning what you think you know of _Romeo and Juliet_ , as we will premiere in January with the original music of Prokofiev, but entirely new choreography… by yours truly.”

“Holy shit,” says Remus into the gap of silence that follows. Lily nudges his shoulder, but to his surprise, McGonagall smiles knowingly at him. Encouraged, Remus is the first to clap, and soon the applause and warmth of celebratory cheers fill the cavernous studio. Benjy whistles the sort of four-fingered whistle Remus has never been able to manage. McGonagall looks upon them all with an uncharacteristic softness. Above Lily’s bright head, Remus makes brief eye contact with Sirius Black, whose gaze is merely what Remus might describe as thoughtful.

“Thank you,” says McGonagall, raising her hand again. “This will be a new leaf overturned for the company. And I would appreciate the help of every single one of you in bringing the production to life. That being said, we will hold auditions at the end of next week for our central roles, and starting today, as you may have noticed in your schedules, the studio time denoted as _Variations_ will be spent with Madam Sinistra or myself on the new choreography.” Whispers of thrill and titillation echo through the room.

Remus shrugs out of his hoodie. The excitement is enough to get him a bit hot. He turns to Lily. “You ready to debut as Juliet, Lils?” he murmurs. If she wasn’t already the most talented of the young ballerinas in the company, her youthful looks would only do her favors as a shoo-in for Juliet.

Her head whips about, long red ponytail brushing her upper back, and she sticks a few bobby pins between her teeth so she can knot her hair into a bun. “God, Remus,” she says, grinning around the pins, “I was born ready. McGonagall’s choreography is always _sublime_ , and can you imagine how she’d portray a naive little girl in love?” She sighs dreamily. “Anyway, one of you two has to play Romeo.” Her finger wags between Remus and Sirius. “I’m not getting on that stage and kissing,” she drops her voice, “fucking _Avery_.”

Remus is already being watched when he looks at Sirius, who does nothing but chuckle for Lily’s sake.

“Pliés.” McGonagall’s voice rings through the studio. Sirius twirls on the ball of his foot, left hand on the barre, and Lily secures her bun with the last of her pins as the music flows and the room moves in sync to warm up.

The perfunctory pliés give Remus a moment to think. Lily has already built a repertoire of playing titular characters; she spent a week the previous winter as San Francisco Ballet’s Giselle, later as their own company’s Odette/Odile in _Swan Lake_. Titular male roles are less common, and dancing Romeo could be an important stride for Remus’ career.

His eyes settle on the back of Sirius’ neck. His hair is down again, as if he doesn’t mind being blinded during piqué or soutenu turns when it whips into his face.

But Romeo — Remus might have thought it feasible, attainable. Until the morning prior.

***

Sunday night at ten, Remus finds himself crammed into crowded 24-hour diner beside Lily and across from James and Sirius Black. Sirius isn’t yet performing for the company, but earlier that evening Lily danced _Carousel_ and Remus _La Sylphide_. Remus cannot explain how he was roped into this; it was a blur of standing in the wings and stretching as he waited to go on, eyes tracking Lily onstage and disregarding the presence of Sirius, who’d spent all night watching the ballet from backstage, as he seems to often do now. As Lily ran off, arms graceful, panting and sweating a bit, she took Remus by the elbow and hounded him closer to Sirius while the curtains closed.

“James wants to go out tonight, properly meet Sirius. You’ll come, yeah, Remus?”

 _“Dancers to backstage for the fourth ballet of the night,_ La Sylphide _.”_

Remus looked over his shoulder at the sound of the PA, but Lily reined him back in. “You’re coming to dinner, Remus,” she stated, then sought out Sirius for affirmation. “Right, Black?”

Sirius, with arms coolly folded over his chest, nodded. A lock of hair fell into his eyes. “Absolutely.”

Remus sighed. “Yeah, fine. I have to go on, Lily, like _now_.”

She released him jauntily. “Good boy.” She then proceeded to punch Sirius’ shoulder, and they shared a look or a laugh about something that Remus hadn’t the time to analyze.

For James, _going out_ is tantamount to shoveling a greasy dinner into his gob while struggling to keep half of it down because Sirius is _too funny_ for James to stop laughing to breathe or chew or swallow. Remus has already finished his frittata and he stares with jealousy at the fries on Lily’s plate. Fuck health.

“What do you think of McGonagall’s choreo?” Remus asks her as Lily wipes her cheeks of mustard.

 _“Mmm,”_ she hums with feeling as she sets down her sandwich. “ _So_ good. I’m almost relieved, I think. Less formal party scene to-and-fro that no one wants to watch. The first act variation for Juliet, to _die_ for. And it’s — it gets a bit more sensual, y’know, the pas with Romeo? In the way that they’re young and lustful but clumsy, too… Dumbledore’s choreo was always a bit dry, don’t you think? Not nearly playful enough, all adagio and wistful emotion from the start, like he knew the tragedy was coming, when it should’ve been more… lighthearted and sexy, I think. Honeymoon phase-y.”

Remus smiles, leans back in his chair, balancing on the back legs. He walks his fingers along the crumb-dusted surface of the table toward Lily’s plate, and just as he’s curling his finger around a french fry, she swats defensively at the back of his hand. “No trespassing,” she remonstrates. “This Reuben,” she lifts the sandwich in her hand, sauerkraut dropping to her plate, “these fries — all mine.”

Remus makes a face.

“You did not say that to the fucking Queen,” wheezes James as he pounds a fist against the table. The salt and pepper shakers quake. Sirius Black, with an arm slung over the back of his chair, smirks not at James, his audience, but at Remus, and slides his plate diagonally toward him.

“My chips are free for the taking, Lupin,” murmurs Sirius.

Remus settles the four legs of his chair onto the floor, lest he spontaneously tip over. “I’m good, thanks,” he says too briskly to Sirius. Luckily Lily’s mouth is too full of sandwich for her chuckle to be conspicuous. Sirius provocatively nudges his plate toward Remus again and Remus decides to stand. “‘scuse me.” He pushes in his chair and heads to the bathroom.

He’s washing his hands at the sink when Sirius slips into the bathroom. Remus sighs through his nose, soaps up a second time so it doesn’t appear as if he’s escaping with purpose, but this backfires as Sirius rests a hand against the sink beside his and leans into it.

“Hey,” says Sirius.

Remus looks at him through the mirror. Sirius has his eyes on Remus’ profile. He’s also not dressed for the studio like Remus has seen him everyday this past week, but in a biker jacket with oversized lapels and worn leather boots his toe’s about to burst through. He should look like a try-hard but, woefully, he doesn’t. “Hi?”

Sirius shifts so his hip rests against the sink, legs effortlessly crossed. “Can we talk?”

Remus lifts his brows but drops his eyes back to the basin. “Nothing’s stopping you from talking to me.”

Sirius huffs a laugh at this and folds his arms. “Right, well, Remus — can I call you Remus?”

Remus’ hands are pruning. He shuts off the water. “That is my name.”

“Well, so far we’ve only been on a last name basis, I just wanted to — anyhow, I just wanted to tell you I’m not trying to step on any toes here, yeah? Specifically yours. I’m not trying to step on your toes.”

Remus eyes him in the mirror as he shakes off his hands. “How do you mean?”

“With regards to Romeo.” Sirius tousles his hair out of his eyes, but it all falls back anyway. “I know it’s practically yours already, the role, but Minerva said she’d still like me to audition, so I’m going to. For her. I wanted you to know. I’m not… _out to get you_ , like.”

Remus steps past Sirius to get to the hand dryer, then decides against it and turns around to face him. “It’s not mine,” he says slowly, looking Sirius in the eyes. It’s harder to do than he’d thought; their gray slices through Remus’ chest like razor-sharp steel. “I’m not guaranteed a thing. I don’t know how I’d compare at the Royal, but here, you and I are on the same level and anything’s fair game. If you were to get the role, you wouldn’t apologize and humbly relinquish it to me, would you? Because it’s ‘mine’?”

Sirius, with eyes slightly narrowed, though glimmering with something between mischief and amusement, murmurs, “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Then why are you talking to me as if I’m a child and haven’t been competing for roles for years?”

Only Sirius’ eyes move as he looks Remus up and down. “You’re Red’s friend. Just thought I would give you fair warning.”

“Fair warning?” Remus snorts. “Save it for the studio, Black. Wouldn’t want to be all talk.” And he knows, _absolutely_ knows, has seen it himself that Sirius Black of the Royal fucking Ballet has all the action to back up his talk, but Remus can’t help but feel incensed and cornered and embarrassed so he breaks eye contact and flings open the bathroom door to slip out.

Sirius doesn’t take his time in returning from the bathroom. Just as Remus is lowering himself back into his chair, Sirius appears behind James to clap a hand onto his shoulder.

“Drinks?” suggests Sirius, which is enough to distract Lily from overtly analyzing the abashed flush to Remus’ cheeks.

“Yes!” she enthuses around her mouthful. Remus tosses down some cash onto the table as he pushes out his chair again. It screeches disastrously against the floor and then he’s eye level with Sirius.

“Sorry. I have early… yoga.”

Lily looks over her shoulder as she wipes a napkin across her mouth. “Since when do you do yoga?”

Remus holds onto the back of her chair, returning Sirius’ iron gaze. “Sunrise yoga.”

“Since when?”

“Since right now,” Sirius murmurs, lip curling slyly.

Remus swiftly says, “See you guys back home,” before Lily can protest, and it’s to his retreating back as he loops his scarf around his neck that James calls, “Bye!” and Lily protests, disgruntled and muffled by the distance and the bodies between them.

***

Even in class Sirius Black dances like a song, musical and flowing. He improvises and smiles shamelessly when he forgets the steps to the combination and turns it into something more beautiful than McGonagall ever intended. He only forgets because after McGonagall’s given the combination, he watches no one, doesn’t take anyone as an example, plays entirely off memory and lets the direction of his gaze follow the fluidity of his épaulment. Vain as he seems, his eyes avoid the mirror unless the step calls for dancing en face and demands that he look forward, and even then it’s like he’s elsewhere in his mind, unseeing of his own reflection.

Remus wilts against the barre at the back of the studio as he awaits his turn to dance. Avoiding Sirius while confined to the studio only means he ends up watching him from the sidelines, neck warmed by the harsh fluorescent light above and the heat of a bitterly jealous blush. Sirius’ every movement takes him back eight years to the Prix; he’s so much the same but still so refined, youthful and free and with height to his jumps, but bolstered by skill borne only from years of training. And he has the face to be a lead — perhaps more rogue and vampy than the typical wide-eyed ignorant Romeo — a face McGonagall (and her marketing team) would be delighted to plaster across posters. It won’t be long before Remus takes his morning walk to the theater only to see Sirius’ face leering down at him from a poster on a lamppost.

Lily shatters his reverie by nudging him away from the barre — “Remus, you haven’t gone yet,” and bless her for even noticing — so Remus steps up alongside Benjy and Dorcas for grand allegro as Flitwick’s music rolls once again into the chorus. But he’s spent too long watching Sirius that every step to the combination slips his mind, and _goddammit_ he refuses to dance Sirius’ accidental choreography even if it’s all he now knows. Remus feels like he’s back in his first year at SAB, frantically watching Benjy’s every move from the corner of his eye, two beats behind the other two and not for stylistic choice. And still through the mirror as he moves he catches a glimpse of Sirius, mop of hair stark against the room’s white walls, chatting in hushed tones with Alice at the back of the studio without a care for Remus’ inattentive, sloppy dancing. His final assemblé lands just beside McGonagall, who merely raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him and moves on to turns. It’s not a good omen for the upcoming audition.

He has to squeeze past Sirius to get to his water bottle and the only thing he’s thinking is _this is your fault_ and he can’t recall when he last felt this petty. He wasn’t lying when he told Sirius at the diner that going for Romeo won’t be his first rodeo, though he’ll admit he's never vied for another role with particular intensity. Avery was a natural choice for the Apollo, appearance-wise, at least, with his sculpted Grecian nose and blond waves, and Benjy for Prodigal Son, dark, sharp, a bit stocky. They fit the bill, and in the same way, so would Remus for all of NYCB’s previous renditions of _Romeo and Juliet_ — tall, bright-eyed, still retaining a sort of innocence to his features despite his perpetually-underslept air. But since Dumbledore’s retirement and McGonagall’s rise, the company took a lurch forward from tradition to modernity and unconventionality. It’s morally better, of course, but it also sells in a place like New York. They funded Marlene’s ballet with enthusiasm.

Remus realizes only once McGonagall nods at Flitwick to start the music for turns that he’s entirely missed the combination again. He edges his way to the back of the mass of dancers. Once there, he rubs a hand across his eyes, closes them briefly. He can see it — Sirius, taller than him and darkly handsome, infusing the every move of his Romeo with sex appeal and allure, clad in a billowy shirt unbuttoned down to the waist, a bad-boy devil-may-care twist on a boy who longs for nothing but his love, carelessly defies a family feud and uncrosses the stars himself. Remus can see it.

Regrettably, he can’t look away.

***

In the afternoon, Remus has headphones in and his eyes glued to his phone when he traipses into what he thinks is an empty studio. He scrolls viciously through his playlist in search of the piece he’ll audition to later that week, but the closer he gets to the speakers and the deeper into the room he goes, the more the music already blaring through the studio overpowers his own. He tugs out an earbud, registers the very same Prokofiev he’s out to play.

Sirius Black stands at the barre by the mirror, leg up, torso bent toward it. Remus watches as his threadbare vest top slides up his lower back, then looks obstinately away. It would be far too obvious to just run out now — he wishes he were more heavy-footed, that he might walk with the same thundering gait as Sirius Black in heavy leather boots, calling to attention even the oblivious around him, but he’s always been light on his feet, able to sneak out of an unwanted situation and only have it noticed later —

“Lupin,” greets Sirius, peering at him through the mirror. He grins, arms folded over the barre, rounded at the shoulders and biceps, slick with sweat. Dark, indecipherable tattoos snake up the middle of his chest, down his left arm.  Remus hasn’t noticed them before. They’re more common now among dancers, though not as much in classical ballet. He pinches absently at his own arm.

“Sorry. I really thought it was empty in here.” Remus pulls his headphones from his ears, squirrels them away into his bag.

“You wouldn’t have come in here otherwise.” Sirius turns to face him, tucks the escaped strands of his hair behind his ears.

Remus nods, stilted. Then completely blows his cover, because he’s fucking thinking about and looking at Sirius’ _hair_ and says, “Well. I’ll be out of your hair, then —”

Sirius lifts a placating hand. “No, no. You stay. I’d meant to go soon anyway.”

Remus feels rooted to his spot. “Alright.” Then Sirius suddenly jogs toward him and he backs away several steps like a frightened deer — it’s all it takes. He comes so close Remus can smell the musk of the sweat on his skin. Sirius wipes his upper lip with the back of his hand as he picks up his phone, disconnects it from the speakers. Romeo’s Variation halts, leaving the air buzzing with silence and electrified tension and Sirius’ even breathing. Remus looks at the floor without dropping his chin.

“Don’t mind me, yeah? Just have to pack up,” Sirius murmurs, flashes at Remus a smile that he doesn’t return, and saunters over to his bag by the floor. Only once he’s actually pulling off his slippers does Remus dare to accept his invitation to _not mind_ , shedding his outer layers and connecting his phone.

He stretches at the barre across the room from Sirius, who still has yet to leave.

“How was sunrise yoga?” asks Sirius wryly. Remus wishes he’d turned on the music already.

He sighs into his knees with his palms resting against the floor. “Fantastic. You should join me some time.”

“Would’ve if you’d asked.”

 _Fat chance._ Remus swivels on his heel. Sirius sits below the barre by the mirror with the soles of his feet pressed together. He holds his toes like a play schooler, smiles like one. “Can I watch?” he asks, then leans his back against the mirror, pulls at the front of his sweat-damp top to fan himself. Remus’ lips part — he hears it. Sirius speaks before he can. “I assume you’re working on the Romeo variation.” His smirk goes crooked. “What, you think I’ll steal your secret recipe?”

Remus huffs out a snort and moves reluctantly toward his phone. “There’s nothing secret about the variation and you know that.”

“The variation, perhaps not. But performed by Remus Lupin?” Sirius shrugs. “Full of secrets.”

Remus presses play. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“You’ll figure it out.” As he watches Remus take his starting position, Sirius pinches his fingers together and pitches his voice low and resounding and operatic. “ _Dance_ for me!” he beckons, and had his cue not just passed, Remus might have walked right out.

It’s difficult to forget that Sirius is in the studio. Even while Remus should have his theatrically lovestruck gaze fixed on the hypothetical Juliet in the corner of the room, Sirius sits too near to where she might stand, and Remus’ ardent desire to evade him tangles with the dance that’s forcing him to focus on his Juliet so intently, close enough to see Sirius’ figure clear in his periphery. McGonagall’s choreography packs numerous energetic turns and jumps into just under a minute, and Remus’ endurance is usually good, but the room’s grown stifling hot by the time he holds his last kneel.

Remus shuts his eyes, recounts the moments he was off the music. He knows he’s done it justice, isn’t embarrassed to have had an observer. But Sirius applauds suddenly with a dry three claps and clears his throat. “Figure it out yet?”

“What?” Remus gets to his feet. Sweat trickles down his temple.

“Full of secrets,” Sirius says emphatically.

Remus stares blankly, then moves to reset the music. “I don’t —”

“You’re _holding back_ , Lupin. You’re always holding back. Sure, you’ve got the technique down, lovely feet — your company’s notorious for hiring dancers with pancakes for feet, but your arches are gorgeous — your jumps only ever get higher, you clearly know what you’re doing. But you didn’t show me your _secrets,_  Lupin. You did nothing for the audience. That’s not — that’s not fucking _Romeo_ , that’s Remus Lupin in a Romeo costume dancing Romeo’s part. Where’s Romeo? Where’s his emotion?”

Remus has allowed his head to loll back, eyes on the ceiling for Sirius’ rant. “Listen, I didn’t ask for your —”

“Constructive criticism? Advice?” Sirius frowns. Remus starts the music again. “Fine! I won’t say anything else,” he calls over the music. “Just thought you might want it, seeing as you want the part.”

“Fuck off,” breathes Remus, but even his own ears don’t pick it up. His cue. He feels every muscle in his arms through the sinuous port de bras, and when his head whips toward his invisible Juliet in the previously unmanned corner, Sirius stands there instead, lounging against the barre, hip cocked. Remus runs with it despite the flaming of his cheeks, the exertion in his chest, and locks eyes with Sirius when he steps close to him, to tangle his fingers in Juliet’s in the air without actually touching him, withdrawing nimbly before Sirius can jocularly reach for him. Though he has Sirius’ attention, every time Remus’ eyes find him, he appears bored, indolent, body lax but for the curl of his lip, eyes slate-gray and hooded. Heat crawls up Remus’ chest, neck, muddles his brain. He’s able to breathe that out. But it flows downward, too, and he stops himself with ten seconds left of the variation across the studio from Sirius and shakes his head wildly. “Get out.”

Sirius doesn’t move. “You want me to —?“

“Get _out_. Please. Can you please just — I’m sorry. I really need to do this alone. Sorry.” Remus grabs onto the barre, pulls himself toward it, hands curling around the grounding wood. He rests his forehead against the cool wall and wills the spontaneous burning paraesthesia in his shoulders and hands to deaden, the rush of blood to his head and his dick to calm. Somewhere, there’s a shuffle of feet, the drag of a bag along the floor, and the door clicks shut shortly. Then Remus can breathe, albeit an unsatisfying shuddered inhale that does nothing for the deoxygenated disorder in his mind, barely gets a breath into his lungs. He tugs his shirt off, balls it up to pillow his face against the barre.

Remus thinks a blush is creeping up on him again, spreading like greedy watercolor across the nape of his neck, but then a sound accompanies that spread of heat, a soft hum of breath, and a hand presses onto the middle of his back and has him twitching. It’s inelegantly loud when Remus swallows thickly but he doesn’t dare move.

“Shame you’d have me go.” A heady whisper. Fingers pluck at the waistband of his tights. “I thought it was much better that time.”

Remus smells Sirius even through the shirt masking his face. Man, stale cigarette smoke, the ripe sweat of exercise. Hair product, too, the asshole. His jaw goes slack, the pit of his stomach roils, and Sirius’ nose brushes behind his ear.

“Do you want me to go?” Sirius breathes into his skin. Then there’s the weight of him, his pecs against Remus’ shoulder blades, hips against his ass, and his hand cups Remus’ neck as he goes for the opposite side of his throat. Sirius’ tongue laps at him. Remus arches back against him, drops his head to Sirius’ shoulder and his shirt to the floor and keens, _“Oh,”_ and Sirius repeats his question flatly.

“Do you want me to go, Lupin.”

Remus feels his cock slowly fatten up. It’s level with the middle barre. He leans his shoulders into Sirius and he presses toward the barre, mutters, “No,” as Sirius suckles on his neck like he’s playing at leaving a mark.

“Turn ‘round.”

Remus does, and they’re almost nose to nose. He peers upward through his eyelashes as Sirius Black’s eyes map him like an undiscovered island. Their bodies don’t touch until Sirius gets to his knees and smoothly pulls down Remus’ tights. Remus grapples for the barre, taken aback.

“Look at that,” hums Sirius, who rubs a thumb into the wet spot on the fabric of Remus’ dance belt. “Mm. This a thong?” he asks quietly, though he could very well find out himself, but he looks at Remus with those ice-over-water eyes to demand an answer, and when Remus nods, Sirius exhales deep. “Show me.”

Remus turns again without complaint, muscles wound up like coiled wire, and Sirius sighs, palms his hands over Remus’ ass and sends chills up the hot scape of his body. “Christ, Lupin. Christ, I wanna wreck you,” he mutters, gravelly. Sirius’ nose nestles just below his tailbone and Remus’ bare stomach scratches against the barre as he takes a breath and Sirius just _breathes in_ , leaving Remus reeling with insecurity and arousal and _hot hot fucking hot_. “But I’m gonna wreck myself first.”

Sirius twists Remus around by the hips again, slides off his dance belt, whistles low when Remus’ cock bobs free and Remus himself can’t even look, stares at the ceiling and hisses, “Shut up.” Sirius chuckles and wastes no time in wrapping deft fingers around him and taking him into his mouth.

Remus gasps, goes rigid from the waist up though the rest of him’s putty in Sirius’ hands — and mouth. Sirius wets him, and fuck has Remus hated his damn big mouth until that moment, and he realizes as he drops his chin that in the mirror opposite he can see the breadth of Sirius’ back as he kneels, the dip of his head as he takes Remus into his tight throat, Remus’ own shoulders flexed in places they needn’t be as he holds onto the barre for dear life. He talks himself out of being as tense as he always is — _mentally_ talks, that is, and his thoughts aren’t coherent but they’re better than he is outwardly, panting and groaning softly — and releases the barre to card his fingers into Sirius’ hair and drag out his hair tie.

Sirius pulls off — to be a nuisance, Remus guesses — but not completely, cants his head back and grips Remus’ dick so its head rests on his tongue. The corners of his obscene lips quirk smugly, slick and dripping down to his shiny chin with spit. Remus can’t stand him, doesn’t want to look at him, but knots his every finger into Sirius’ hair, urging him closer. He watches through the mirror, feels his cock miss the target and slip against Sirius’ cheek. Sirius rubs a palm along the side of Remus’ thigh and laughs deviously into Remus’ hip.

“This is how it’s going to be, hm?” whispers Sirius. Face going florid, Remus imagines his sneer so he doesn’t have to look down.

He drags nails along Sirius’ scalp. His hair is silky, damp at the roots. He breathes out, voice cracking, “I’m…“

“Mm.” Sirius kisses his hip. “Don’t be embarrassed, Lupin. It’s what I’ve been telling you, isn’t it? Let it out. Secrets and all.”

“Fucking…” Remus shakes his head, rests his heavy head against the barre. “It’s not that _deep_ , you fucking prick, I just want to —”

Sirius bites down right on Remus’ hipbone. “Yeah, alright.” He swallows down Remus’ cock again, hands snaking around Remus’ thighs.

Above Sirius, Remus swears, casts an unseeing glance toward the studio door, but at this point he doesn’t care, he’s in too deep, and he clutches at Sirius Black’s hair and fucks his mouth gluttonously, rapaciously. The barre rattles against his back, his breath echoes in the studio, and when he comes it’s into Sirius’ hand because Remus has the decency to warn him. Lips an irritated pink like he’s been biting at them, Sirius wipes his face and hand off on Remus’ discarded shirt, redresses him and lets the tights snap snug to Remus’ damp skin. As he stands, he gives Remus a look so detached that Remus’ blissed-out-gone-resentful countenance now seems morally unfair so Remus feels _guilty_ for it, watching Sirius stride out of the studio with his bag in tow and an offhanded, “See you, Lupin.”

***

Whilst Romeo auditions crawl nearer, Marlene deems it necessary to spend the first several minutes of his and Sirius’ rehearsal time lecturing them on the inherence of remaining focused on her piece, the broader significance of her _As Yet Untitled Queer Ballet_ and not allowing it to fall to the back burner during fuss and buzz over a love story they’ve all had memorized since grade school. She says this all into the microphone while Sirius and Remus sit on the edge of the stage, several feet apart. She pauses to take a sip of water, kiss Dorcas — they married the previous year — and hug Lily goodbye, and then hound them out of the theater to focus on Sirius and Remus. Her ballet is in three parts and features Lily and Dorcas as a pair followed by Sirius and Remus, and the third piece remains un-cast. Marlene told Remus she’s still in the process of buttering up McGonagall until she permits Marlene to cast dancers from local dance troupes outside their company, which lacks dismally in transgender and non-binary dancers.

Marlene gestures for them to stand, assumes her seat several rows back, then stares at the vacant piano. “What — where the fuck did Potter go?”

“Chill, woman!” James hustles in through the side doors. “Can’t a guy go to the vending machine? Jesus Christ. Oh shit, hi, Black! Remus! Where’d my girlfriend go?”

Sirius waves at James and holds his knee to his chest in a stretch. “You just missed her.”

“Dammit. Got distracted, there’s all this cool health nut food in the vending machines backstage, have you seen —?”

“Right,” says Marlene. “Welcome, gentlemen. New week, clean slate, a second chance to gain back my undying love.” Remus sneaks a look at Sirius. “Which you may or may not have lost last week. Let’s just do… from the top, okay?” She clears her throat, throws her feet up onto the row in front. “Potter, if you get crumbs on that piano, there will be consequences, and I will see them through personally.”

Sirius’ cheek is cool against his neck, his breath warm on his shoulder, hands holding Remus’ arms like a lover. Tender. And yet… “So we meet again,” mutters Sirius mockingly.

“Really?” Remus grudgingly gets into position.

Sirius laughs. “Forgive me. This just feels strangely familiar.” His thumb rubs an arc over Remus’ skin. “And I wanted to remind you.”

Remus’ throat is too dry to swallow. James plays the first few notes that roll over into the clever melody. Remus moves without explicit remembrance of the steps. Wherever he isn’t, Sirius is, as it should be; he goes to leap and Sirius holds him, drags him, he enacts a fall and Sirius catches him with grace. He can’t be sure if it’s biological or psychological, but can only be grateful that dance belts are excellent at concealing hard-ons. This isn’t useful when he runs to Sirius, a diagonal across the stage, and makes the jump that broke him last time. It’s a delicate balance but they hold it together, Sirius’ hands on his thighs, Remus’ clutching at Sirius’ steady shoulders. The music grows gentle and tinkling, and to get back to the floor, Sirius eases Remus downward along his own body with control. There’s not a second their bodies don’t touch, and if the bulge in Remus’ tights wasn’t obvious before, it must be once it’s rubbed down the length of Sirius’ torso. With Remus grounded, their hands come together in a flower-like tangle over which Sirius smirks at him. They part as the mellifluous tune goes sharp, and though it’s at this part that they circle each other solo, Remus is painfully aware of Sirius’ location onstage. He only touches him again to lower him to the floor, which takes all the might in his arms to render soundless.

Remus kneels over him, holding position. The music stops and he hears the crinkle of James’ snack packaging but Marlene is silent. Below Remus, Sirius watches him with a disquieting intensity, and gets up onto his elbows like he’s about to, god forbid, kiss him, but Remus turns his head to Marlene who’s clapping with the microphone wedged between her thighs.

“Damn,” she laughs, feigns wiping sweat off her forehead. “Whew. What’d you do this Monday, Lupin? Watch some porn? Never mind, I don’t care. That was… good. It’s definitely getting there. Black, you were off when you got to the tour jeté sequence. Less distance, more height and you’ll stay on top of the beat, could we run through…” Marlene breaks off, pulling out her phone briskly. “Gotta take this. You two, take five. Potter, don’t you fucking go anywhere.” She switches off the microphone.

Remus looks back down to realize Sirius is gone, already in the wings. Something possesses Remus to follow him backstage, a brief detour to Sirius’ bag, and then into the hall and out an emergency exit into the chill of late September. The metal door creaks as he shoves it open. Sirius cups his hand around a cigarette he’s lighting, eyes flashing to Remus. “What?”

Remus leans up against the wall, stares at the dumpster opposite. “Nothing.” He waits a few breaths, looks at Sirius with what he thinks is stealth, but Sirius only snorts.

“ _What_?”

Remus isn’t going to lecture him. “Nothing.”

“Am I bothering you? You came out here yourself.”

“No.”

“Then stop looking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like — constipated!”

“I don’t _look_ like anything.” Remus rubs his hand over his face, shakes his head. His sweat is drying onto his skin.

“Besides, these aren’t even my lungs. It doesn’t matter. Transplant, y’know —”

Remus looks Sirius dead in the eye this time, obscured by the curls of smoke.

Sirius’ eyebrows shoot up. “It was a joke! I’m joking!”

“That’s not fucking funny. Not at all.”

“I — yeah. I realize that now. It was low of me, I’m sorry. I am, okay?”

Remus rolls his eyes. “It’s not me you should apologize to.”

“You’re right. Still sorry.”

Remus shakes his head, stares at the asphalt between his feet. The cold is helping, his erection is waning, and he should resent the noxious smell of Sirius’ smoke but he doesn’t and he hates that he doesn’t.

“So you were engaged to the bloke whose spot I took?” asks Sirius, tapping ashes from his cigarette.

Remus hums, eyes still trained on his feet. “You want to talk about Leon?”

“Just making conversation.” Sirius takes another pull. “We could also talk about your boner.”

When Remus looks at Sirius, jaw clenched, the latter is a bit closer now, puffing innocently on his cigarette as if the dumpster is of utmost interest to him.

“It’s not remotely interesting,” murmurs Remus. “I’d known him since I joined the company, at, like, seventeen. We dated. It was — I was twenty when he first proposed. He proposed to me three times. I didn’t accept ’til the third. I’d been smarter the first two times around, clearly, but then I’d gotten to thinking — anyway, that’s it. _Third time’s the charm,_ he’d always joke, but it isn’t as funny now.”

The wind blows Sirius’ smoke past Remus’ face. “Did you take it hard?”

Remus glances toward Sirius. There’s hair caught in his eyelashes. “Are we still on my engagement or have we moved onto the boner?”

Sirius barks a laugh that Remus doesn’t expect. “Engagement.”

Remus shrugs. “Mutual decision. We realized when we got to talking about an open engagement that it didn’t sound so promising.”

“Right.” Sirius nods, then turns so he’s angled toward Remus bodily. “If… if we’d moved onto your boner, Lupin, I would’ve phrased the question differently.”

Remus squints at the asphalt again, because he doesn’t recall a question, but Sirius drops his cigarette into Remus’ line of sight, stubs it out, and leans close enough against the wall to whisper into his ear, “Do you like it hard?”

The metal door groans as it opens. Marlene steps out, shadowed eyes accusing. “There you are. I said take five, not fucking twenty. Get back in here and warm up.”

“Aye aye, captain,” says Sirius. He disappears from Remus’ side as if he’d never been there, saunters in past Marlene.

Remus sucks in a sobering breath of cool air and follows.

***

Remus lays on his back in bed. It’s just gone nine at night. Soft echoes of the comedy James and Lily are cuddled up watching in the living room breach his closed door, and he should read, zone out online, do whatever it is he always does in the evenings. Routine escapes him, though, because on Remus’ mind is Sirius; on his knees, kissing his hip, lips brushing his ear. He thinks coldly that this is precisely what Sirius wants for him, to have his every waking hour — every hour potentially spent practicing for Romeo — pervaded by dark hair and smoldering eyes and the carelessly artful flux of his limbs both in dance and not.

To spite Sirius, Remus shuts his eyes, hums the Prokofiev lowly, conjures the variation in his head, hands moving accordingly in stunted port de bras against the sheets. He even manages to picture the studio around him, walls of mirrors, but his reflection isn’t his own. It’s Sirius, clothed in his thin tank top with his lean carved thighs and hair knotted at the base of his neck. Remus whines in frustration. _Get out, get out, you’re not funny and are supremely overrated and dance like it’s what you were put on this Earth to do, like you don’t have to try and it’s not fair._ It’s been three months since his last relationship ended and Remus is crawling out of his skin, but _why_ , why didn’t it bother him before now? Remus is no sex maniac. But close to all his friends are dancers and he’s learned the hard way that intra-company relations aren’t worth the gossip, awkwardness, or potential humiliation.

Remus curses himself as he slides a hand into his boxers. Steering clear of his half-hard cock, pulsing wrist scratching over curly pubic hair, he rubs a dry finger over his hole. He cracks an eye open, stares at his door, listens to the faint sound of a laugh track for the umpteenth time, then flips frantically onto his stomach, nearly knocking his nightstand over in the effort to whip open the drawer and pull out the lube at the very back. He wets his fingers, and it’s as he faceplants into his pillow, knowing it’ll get messy and wet and he’s only just changed his sheets this Monday and he’s giving Sirius what he wants, he’s so _weak_ , that he presses his forefinger inside himself, gasping high into the pillow. He shoves his sheets down toward his waist, vision already flashing with color and heat as he pushes himself further; teeth gritted, back arched, cock heavy and straining against his boxers and the mattress below, pillow growing uncomfortably hot with every breath. Remus takes himself back in time — pinned against the barre or frozen against the brick in back of the theater, Sirius’ mouth too close for its own good, always, even when they’re rehearsing for Marlene’s —

Three brusque knocks on his bedroom door and it swings open. Remus scrambles onto his back, smearing lube onto everything he touches, and tugs the sheets up to his neck so vigorously his feet poke out.

“Hey man,” James says, lounging against the door frame. Remus can feel the light from the hall pour in, paint a stripe of his face yellow. “Listen, just decided I’m doing this random open mic night tonight, but I don’t have my deodorant on me and you know I get all sweaty when I jump around and shit and, like, I think a few fans might turn up once they hear about it and I’d rather not —”

“Mirror cabinet in the bathroom. Top shelf, on the right,” Remus says hoarsely, then clears his throat.

James smiles. “Thanks, man. Sorry to wake you. Would’a just gone and used it but I couldn’t find it.”

Remus nods, grimaces privately at the squelch of lube in his boxers as he shifts. “Enjoy your show.”

“Thanks. I was thinking I’d cover Sufjan, or, like, some old Red Hot Chili Peppers — just in the mood — or maybe tease that song I wrote about Lily’s nasty-ass foot blister two weeks ago when I was wasted — d’you remember that? Not the blister, but the song? Like, sounded like shit when I woke up the next morning, but it’s been stuck in my head all today, and I really think there might be something there.”

Remus stares at his feet, then tosses the covers over them. “If you’re willing to risk a few bleeding ears here and perforated eardrums there…“

James grins, points finger guns at Remus. “Always. Night, Remus.”

His door clicks shut. Remus collapses, defeated, onto the warm side of his pillow. He slips out of his boxers, wipes off, and drops them to the floor. The dark silhouette of the bottle of lube on his nightstand mocks him, but Remus has James’ dreadful eyesight to thank for avoiding extreme mortification at the hands of James Potter and a bottle of lubricant, so if he knew how, he’d mock it back.

***

The principals, hopeful soloists, and a few daring corps members line the perimeter of studio four in the bowels of the David H Koch Theater come half past three in the afternoon. Remus rolls onto and off the balls of his feet out in the hallway because he’s still got a few names ahead of him on the audition roster and he’s already watched five men dance the same variation. Benjy is up now. Remus peers absentmindedly through the doorway, curious despite his boredom and jitters.

“I don’t see much Romeo in him. More of a Mercutio, I think,” Sirius says behind him. Remus wonders if he’s growing accustomed to Sirius’ surprise attacks because he doesn’t flinch this time.

“Actually, he was Benvolio four years back when we put on Dumbledore’s version.”

“Yeah?”

Remus hums, peers over his shoulder at Sirius. He feels downright foolish attempting to have composure around Sirius when the man knows already how to pull Remus’ strings, has pretty much seen him naked, and even smiled in the face of Remus’ post-orgasm stupor. “I was Mercutio.”

Sirius looks at him and arches an eyebrow. Inspecting him, Remus wonders if Sirius failed to fully wash away last night’s wild eyeliner or if he’s trying to be subtle about the faint black smudged around his waterline. “ _You?_ Mercutio?”

Remus looks away. “Is it so hard to believe?”

“Yes,” says Sirius immediately. “You haven’t nearly the sense of humor he demands.”

“I have —” Remus cuts himself short. “You don’t have to _be_ the character to get the role, Sirius. Only onstage.”

Sirius is silent. Remus tilts his head against the doorway, ignores the indubitable amusement or contempt Sirius must be observing him with. “ _You_ made the audience laugh?”

Remus scoffs. “ _Yes,_  would you —”

“Sorry. Just upset I missed out on that.”

Remus rolls his eyes, turns to face Sirius as McGonagall thanks Benjy and calls Avery to his feet for his audition. “Do you see this?” He points to the pale, slightly grooved scar that slashes across his nose. Remus has grown to not mind it, if only because it can be easily concealed for the stage. “I got it practicing the duel between Tybalt and Mercutio. Leon got a bit excited, moved too early, I didn’t get to block him, and he slashed me ‘cross the face. Lucky I wasn’t blinded.” His gaze flickers over Sirius’ face. There’s an unceasing tilt to Sirius’ lips when he’s around Remus. Remus sighs, smiles easily at Dorcas when she passes them in the corridor with a quizzical look, then proceeds calmly. “I’m sure that — that what happened a few days ago has made you real sure of yourself, but you only just got here. Just like I know fuck all about you —” mind for the Prix de Lausanne — “you know fuck all about me, Sirius. I’ve done Mercutio, I’ve done the shit roles and the mediocre ones and the greats, which I know may come as a shock to you. And in the past, I _have_ beaten people out for the things I want.” Sirius’ eyes are unreadable, and Remus exhales again as he faces the doorway, feeling his diatribe overdramatic but completely necessary. A laugh bubbles out of Sirius, and Remus wants to sock him in the jaw, then pin him to the wall and show him just how weak in the knees Remus could get him, because he _could_ , he thinks he could shatter Sirius’ insouciant pomp with a little effort. “ _There_ he is,” laughs Sirius.

“Mr. Lupin?” McGonagall nods at him. Remus smiles blankly and navigates to the other corner of the studio, and as he steps into starting position, the mirror’s reflection of Sirius in the doorway acts as his phantom Juliet.

***

In the costume shop, Remus slouches on the couch as he watches Sybill Trelawney, seamstress and costume designer, wrap a tape measure around Lily’s waist.

“Not sure how I feel about pale pink anymore,” Sybill mutters thoughtfully. Lily knows not to respond to Sybill’s mindless chatter. “It’s very… circa Dumbledore. Would wash you out, you’re so pale. But with that hair, those eyes of yours… Lavender, perhaps? Or a deeper purple? Oh, that’d be just lovely.” She coils the tape measure around her neck and wanders off, disappearing between racks of costumes, fluffy tutus, and rolls of cloth.

“What’s she fitting you for?” asks Remus. He feels ridiculous, lounging in Marlene’s vision of his costume for her ballet — a skimpy vest with no shirt underneath, pair of oversized, puffy bloomers, belted at the waist. It’s a comfortable getup, would be easy to dance in, but after Sybill remarked under her breath how much shorter the pants made him look, he’s not sure how keen he is on looking short next to Sirius Black.

“No idea, honestly.” Lily rests her hands on her hips, nods toward the nearest dress form. It’s robed in a white leotard with a sheer outer dress that’s still raw at the hems but folds exquisitely. “There’s my Aphrodite costume. We just did a refit, but then she told me stay and won’t tell me what for.” Lily and Dorcas will be Aphrodite and Sappho in Marlene’s ballet.

Remus considers Sybill’s words, _pale pink, lavender_ , smiles complacently. “Juliet.”

Lily looks at him, eyes shifty. “No.”

He continues to smile, knowing. “Juliet.”

Lily holds her palm to her chest, lowers her voice to a whisper. “You don’t think…?” Remus knows he’s convinced her without much of an argument already, he can tell by the sparkle in her eyes, but still she says, “But they haven’t released the cast list yet!”

Sybill returns with two squares of mauve crepe and lavender chiffon and kneels, holding them to Lily’s waist.

Remus sits up. “The dark one’s too mature for Juliet, don’t you think?”

Sybill gives a contemplative hum. “Yes, yes, too mature, good thinking.” She rises, pins the lavender square to Lily’s chest with her fingertip.

Lily’s jaw drops comically and she turns to Remus. Sybill notices this and looks up, following her line of sight to Remus, and then her eyes go distant. “Oh.” She tucks frizzy hair behind her ear. “Oh. You shouldn’t know that yet. You shouldn’t… know that yet. How did you know?”

Lily launches herself off the pedestal and leaps onto Remus, who chokes and laughs under the sudden weight but squeezes her still.

“Potter will be devastated when he finds out about this.” Lily’s hair prickles Remus’ eyes when she whirls to check the doorway that Sirius is striding through.

“I really haven’t got the emotional capacity to care about his devastation right now,” says Lily as she climbs out of Remus’ lap, assumes a pose, the flat of her hand beneath her chin. “Black, you’re looking at New York City Ballet’s next Juliet.”

Sirius’ first instinct seems to be to look at Remus. But he recovers, beatific smile growing, and opens his arms for Lily, who squeals and runs to him. “No _fucking_ way.”

Remus hides his smile as Sirius spins Lily around in place. When Marlene enters the costume shop she has to dodge Lily’s propellor legs as they fly past. “I don’t know what’s happening in here but my consider my mood lifted,” says Marlene, biting her red-stained lip as she fingers at the material of the Aphrodite costume. “Oh, Sybill. It’s beautiful,” she comments softly, then slides an arm around Sybill’s shoulders. “Just what I wanted.” Sybill remains jarred by her accidental confession, hunched and confused under Marlene’s arm. Marlene nods at Remus. “Alright, I want what I came here for. Let’s see it, Lupin.”

Remus stands just as Sirius sets Lily down. Marlene’s grimace is instantaneous. “Dear god, Lupin, you look like an oversized toddler. That thing’s a fucking diaper on you.” Sirius snorts at this and Remus shoots him a look.

“You have a kit of your own exactly like this,” he states.

Marlene frowns at Sybill. “It really doesn’t suit him, does it?” Sybill shakes her head, rolling and unrolling between her fingers the sample of lavender cloth. “And it doesn’t bring the Victorian era to mind at all, really. It’s not romantic. In fact, it’s verging on steampunk. This is what I get for interfering in the creative process, isn’t it, darling?” asks Marlene. Sybill nods silently. Marlene sighs, pets at Sybill’s untamable hair. “What would you have me do, Sybill?”

“I was thinking I’d do the breeches a bit tighter, but in chiffon. Breathable, you see, gauzy enough to move around in but not as... harem-like as these. Knee socks. Satin bows for neckties. And overcoats, I thought, but also in chiffon, and with capes that should move nicely when they do. I do believe you’ll still be able to see their bodies, movements and all, but they’ll have the tailoring, be slightly more reminiscent of the era than… this,” says Sybill, her gaze eternally zoned out on Remus’ ankle.

Marlene scoffs. “Well that’s — that’s great, Sybill. Why didn’t you do that from the start?”

“I’m not sure, my dear,” Sybill offers.

Marlene smiles and kisses her on the temple. “I’ll be off then. Let me know when you’ve made headway, Sybill, and we’ll have another fitting with these two.” Marlene releases Sybill, and on her way to the door, she stops short in front of Lily, evaluating her in silence. Lily can’t stand still, bopping in place. Then Marlene pulls her in for a hug. “Congratulations on Juliet. Just keep it on the down-low for now, yeah?”

As soon as Marlene’s gone, Lily gathers up her bag and stumbles out of the costume shop with an “I have to call my mom!” that leaves Remus, Sirius, and Sybill alone.

Sybill belatedly looks at the two of them. “Mr. Lupin, feel free to take that off. And if you wouldn’t mind staying, Mr. Black, I need your measurements.” She gestures for Sirius to step onto the pedestal. He sheds his sweatshirt without hesitation, dropping it by Remus’ feet.

Sybil draws a line from one of Sirius’ shoulders to the other with her measuring tape, puttering about him with silent mutters. “No news on Romeo, then,” says Sirius as Remus unbuckles his bloomers.

“Guess not.”

Sirius waits to speak again until Sybill has disappeared into the depths of the shop to record his measurements. Remus slips back into his sweats, determined to escape before Sirius can corner him again. “There’s nothing we can do at this point,” Sirius murmurs, hands on his hips, “about who gets it.”

“Got that right.” Remus shrugs into his shirt, folds his costume for Sybill.

“I never doubted you, Lupin. I must’ve come off that way, based on what you said to me, but I didn’t.”

Remus gathers up his bag, shakes his head, averts his eyes. “That’s great, but I don’t care what you think of me.”

“Liar,” says Sirius, stepping off the pedestal. “You do. And it’s not a bad thing, at least I don’t think it is. Shit, Lupin, you’re fantastic. I’ve been to the company’s shows before to see Red dance. Whenever I’m in the States, I always go. And you’re a bit difficult to avoid, given they always partner you two.” He smiles at Remus, soft, then clears his throat. “Anyway, you’re fantastic, and in the studio, before — _what happened_ , you were fantastic then, too. But after, after I pointed out you were holding back, _fuck_ , you were even fucking better.”

Remus stares into the abyss of tutus, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. He wipes at his upper lip — lovely, he’s started to sweat there under Sirius’ scrutiny. He can’t help but feel that Sirius’ compliments come from a place of magnanimity, his tone charitable, almost patronizing, recognizing that Remus is good but Sirius is great. “What’s your point?”

“My point?” Sirius chuckles. “Er, I don’t know. I don’t think I have one.”

Remus turns his eyes on Sirius. “You’ve taunted me since the moment you got here because you knew I could be better and you wanted me to be better,” he deadpans. “Do you realize how _stupid_ that sounds?”

Sirius’ voice cracks mid-laugh, holding up a hand. “Alright, mate, hold on. We’ve barely interacted,“ he seems to recall Remus’ dick in his mouth, or something of that order, and corrects himself, “our _conversations_ have been minimal at most. I’d hardly call it taunting.” Sirius smirks, shakes his head. “I mean, it was innocent flirting at first. Then a bit of more-than-friendly competition. I was enjoying myself. It’s you who didn’t like me from the start.”

“I didn’t —” Remus bites the inside of his lower lip. _I didn’t not like you from the start?_ He won’t tell Sirius a bald-faced lie. He looks away. “Maybe I got my hackles up a bit too soon.”

“ _Yes_ ,” breathes Sirius, nodding as if he’s waited too long for that confession. “Yes. You did. And maybe I took advantage of that because you’re single and bloody fit and I like winding you up too much.” Sirius’ eyes scan him from head to toe and back up again. “Though you could stand to relax.”

Remus’ tongue feels too big for his mouth as the cogs in his brain screech to a stop. Sybill rescues him when she comes up behind Sirius, clipboard in hand, and lassos him in with her tape measure to get his waist.

Remus backs toward the door. “Thanks, Sybill.”

“Oh.” She peers around Sirius. “Goodbye, my dear.”

Sirius watches Remus intensely, bare chest rising with even breaths.

“I’ll be civil if you will, Sirius,” Remus says, idling by the door.

Sirius quirks an eyebrow. “Who said anything about being civil?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ballets mentioned:  
> [Carousel (A Dance)](https://youtu.be/reGU0MpYU6I) (Lily)  
> [La Sylphide: Act II Pas de Deux](https://youtu.be/6Mz7G4TNg6g) (Remus)


	3. Confituerenberg

The autumn season ends in mid-October, two weeks after the Romeo audition, and the change of tides means rehearsals for Nutcracker season begin and performances take a lull.

Remus strolls into the theater the day Nutcracker rehearsals are to start. He signs in on the company roster on the noticeboard, glances over the pinned-up Nutcracker cast list he’s seen everyday for weeks now. This season, Remus will alternate between Spanish Hot Chocolate and his favorite Nutcracker role, Candy Cane. He notes with a tentative smile that beside _Cavalier_ , it’s been changed to read _Sirius Black_.

Despite his jibes about incivility, Sirius was tame at last week’s rehearsal with Marlene. Tame, as in he didn’t bring up Romeo once. It didn’t stop Remus from feeling like Sirius’ hands lingered for too long on his body as they rehearsed, like Remus was leaning too heavily, dependently into the touch, like the arched brows and crooked smirks didn’t make Remus want to run home after his last _La Sylphide_ of the season and wank himself silly in the shower.

He hears Lily before he sees her. She comes sliding down the linoleum hallway — literally sliding, feet stuffed into warm-up booties that skid easily along the smooth floors — panting, _“Remus! Remus!”_ until she’s caught onto his arm. She won’t stop bouncing.

He blinks at her. “How are you here? It’s barely ten, I thought I left —”

Lily smiles impishly, unhands him when her phone chimes in her pocket. “I left before you,” she explains. “That was James’ snoring. I’ve been here for an hour, McGonagall wanted to talk…” She stares emptily at her phone a moment. She’s a twenty-first century Moira Shearer. Social media loves Lily and her red hair and tutu pictures and dance videos. “I just got an email. We have a photoshoot next week.” She wraps her fingers around Remus’ wrist, goes to tug him down the hall, but he doesn’t budge.

“We? As in you and I?”

Lily gives a slow nod.

McGonagall steps into the hallway, smiling cordially at the two of them before edging past Remus to reach the noticeboard, where she pins another paper. As she passes Remus again, her dance sneakers squeaking softly along the floor, she tilts her head at him. “Congratulations, Mr. Lupin.” Before she gets into the stairwell, she adds, “I’ll see you in class.”

Lily grins at Remus and pushes him toward the noticeboard. Just beneath the heading and _Juliet: Lily Evans (understudy Dorcas Meadowes)_ , the newly-pinned cast list reads _Romeo: Remus Lupin (understudy Fabian Prewett)_. Several rows down is _Mercutio: Sirius Black_.

“Shit,” says Remus. Lily rubs him on the back. A few blinks, another deep breath, and all Remus can say again is, “Shit.”

“Take your time. Process. Breathe, too, maybe, but I know that’s hard for you sometimes.” Lily begins to walk backwards down the hall. “I have to go see Sybill, she’s rushing to get the costumes done before the photoshoot.” Then she turns to sprint toward the far doors.

Lily’s spot at the barre stays unoccupied throughout the minutes leading up to class. Remus receives his fair share of congratulatory pats on the back, to which he can only smile awkwardly and give his banal thanks.

Sirius turns up — Remus can’t be sure why it surprises him every time, he’s a member now, has been for weeks — and Remus sits down to pretend to mess with something in his bag. Sirius sinks down to his level, though, stares at him until Remus can’t possibly ignore him any longer.

“Hello,” Remus murmurs, then finds that Sirius is pushing at his shoulder so Remus will twist to face him.

“Come on, look at me!” Sirius says, chuckling. He drops his hands to the floor with a smack. Remus obliges. “Lupin. You did it.”

“Yeah,” answers Remus. “You’re… strangely happy.”

“I am.” Sirius shifts, leaning back into his hands, and Remus absolutely doesn’t trace the swoops of his twin collarbones with his eyes. “Because as fun as it was, now we can drop the petty rivalry and you can go out with me.”

Remus snorts, acts like every nerve ending in his body hasn’t just been set off. “Excuse me?”

Sirius shrugs. “Go out with me. Drinks. Celebratory drinks.”

“You’re _telling_ me to go out with you?”

“No,” Sirius whines, and he drags his bum along the floor toward Remus until he’s close enough to latch onto Remus’ hand. “ _Asking_. I’m asking.”

Remus shakes Sirius off, blushing unreasonably hot. “It’s unprofessional.”

“ _Unprof_ — everybody fucking does it,” laughs Sirius, disbelieving. “Dorcas and Marlene got _married_.” It’s bizarre to Remus how Sirius talks now of Dorcas and Marlene as if he’s known them for years.

Remus hesitates. “That’s different.”

“ _You_ were engaged to a —”

“And look where that got me.”

“Lupin. I’m not asking you to marry me.”

Remus stands up when McGonagall enters, Lily tagging along behind. Sirius follows, clutching onto the barre and looking almost despondent. Remus clears his throat, rolling onto and off the balls of his feet, and lowers his voice to a near-whisper: “You weren’t joking before?”

“Joking? About what?”

Remus says nothing because McGonagall says, “Pliés,” and he gets into first position.

Sirius does, too, though he’s watching Remus sideways through the mirror. “About wanting to sleep with you?” he mutters, too loud. Remus glares him down, whipping his hand out to gesture to their surroundings. At Lily, who’s getting situated at the barre on the other side of Sirius. Sirius ignores it. “No. I wasn’t.”

As the music starts, Remus turns his head forward. _Unprofessional_ , he mouths. Sirius twists his upper body just so he can make eye contact with Remus as he rolls his eyes dramatically. Sirius’ top dips low enough under his arms to show the ripple of muscle around his ribs. Remus has to channel the tension of the laughter threatening to push its way out of his throat elsewhere. His toes curl into the floor with the effort to hold it in. Sirius must notice the ghost of a smile on his lips, though, because Remus sees his natural smugness consume him before he faces front. And while McGonagall trails past and Sirius bends into port de bras forward — skims his fingers by his toes, face by his knees — he does it before the musical cue so Remus will see it when he winks at him, absolutely ridiculous and upside down, shaggy hair succumbing to gravity into that of a Troll Doll.

Absolutely ridiculous.

***

It should seem obsessive for Remus to measure the passage of time by his own bodily contact with Sirius Black.

But as _The Nutcracker_ and _Romeo and Juliet_ rehearsals kick into full gear and Marlene’s ballet is put on hold for Lily, Dorcas, Sirius, and Remus — Marlene will spend the interim auditioning dancers of the New York City dance community for the third act of her show, which won’t premiere until the spring season — Remus spends far less time rubbing against Sirius’ body, being held and thrown and seized by him, and far more practicing sparring with Caradoc who is reprising his role as Tybalt, viewing Sirius as a friend through Romeo’s eyes, and jumping through a hula hoop for Candy Cane.

So while obsessive, Remus doesn’t think it unfounded.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving is the opening night of _The Nutcracker_. While the first act progresses onstage, Remus and Lily are in Remus’, once Remus and Leon’s, dressing room on stage level. Lily is lovely in her glittery crown and corset-like Dew Drop costume, and Remus leans over her as she sits. His thumb gently pulls taut her closed eye as he draws with her eyeliner a black peaked line to extend her eyelid. Remus can never remember the technical term for it but he knows how it looks and Lily claims he does it best, that his hands are steadier than her own and the makeup artists’.

The door to his dressing room creaks open, but Remus doesn’t flinch and draws the matching arch along the underside of Lily’s eye.

“How is it that I keep walking in on you two in compromising positions? The saga continues.” The plastic water bottle in Sirius’ hand crinkles as he throws back a gulp and takes a seat on Remus’ dressing table.

“Shut up, Black — did you get it? Are you done?” Lily stays frozen until Remus nods and pulls away to cap the eyeliner. She cranes her neck to see past Sirius into the mirror — “Move your ass, Christ, you’re _huge_ ” — and once satisfied, she turns again to Remus and shuts her eyes. “Blow.” Remus complies, blows gently on her eyes while Sirius looks on in amusement. Eventually, she pushes out of the chair and heads toward the door. “Don’t laugh, Black. Remus does the best winged eyeliner east of the Mississippi. Better even than the lady who did my makeup for Harper’s Bazaar.” She tugs open the door, blows them both a kiss without mussing her red lipstick. “Alright. _Merde_ , you two. I want to go say hi to my flowers.” The door glides closed in her wake.

Remus stares at the door, willing Lily to walk back through it — how is it that he can fantasize and think about Sirius at all hours of the day, then want so desperately for him to leave now they’re finally alone? — but she doesn’t. Sirius sits down in Lily’s chair instead. It takes a moment for Remus to realize what looks so odd about him — his hair’s been slicked straight back, tied into a little ponytail at the nape of his neck, and his skin is matte for the stage.

“Marlene wasn’t lying about the spray tan,” Sirius says, getting comfortable.

“Is it that noticeable?”

“Only if you notice those kinds of things.”

Remus doesn’t know what that means, and Sirius has taken his only chair, so he goes to sit on the dressing table before Sirius sticks out an arm to stop him. “Your costume’s cute.”

He means the Candy Cane costume — frill-collared top and pants, striped in pink and green like candy canes and covered in jingle bells. With a matching hat. Remus has never looked more like a children’s toy, but Sirius isn’t much better in his white tights and candy-colored pastel blouse. “At least my hairline’s not receding.”

Sirius’ hair flies up toward his head as he peeks into the mirror. “It’s not —!” But then as he takes in Remus’ near-vacant gaze, he shakes his head and hums thoughtfully. “Where did you say you were from?”

“I never mentioned it.”

“Mention it now, then.”

Remus rolls his eyes. “Liverpool, once upon a time.”

This brings a smile to Sirius’ face. “Didn’t have you figured for a Scouser. But I can hear it sometimes. Something. Just barely.”

“It’s been ten years. I sound decently American.”

Sirius crosses his arms. “You go back and visit?”

“For a bit in the summer, usually. For my parents.”

“What’d you do for Thanksgiving? You people do things for it ‘round here, don’t you?”

Remus almost laughs at the onslaught of questions, settles against the dressing table despite Sirius’ protests. “Nothing. Lily offered to have me over her parents’ up in Boston, but I think it’s more of a James-and-the-Evanses thing.”

“She asked me too,” Sirius murmurs absently, then scoots forward in his chair to grab onto Remus’ knees. “You were alone on Thanksgiving? Why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve made something of it, Lupin!” he crows.

Remus raises an eyebrow. “Well, first, as a holiday, it’s culturally and politically immoral —”

Sirius’ fingers sink into Remus’ knees as he says. “I _know_. I just mean… everyone was with people. You could’ve had people. Person.” His head cocks to the side. Remus looks away, lip caught between his teeth. “Me.”

“Sirius…”

Sirius’ hands clap onto the sides of Remus’ thighs, then he leans back in the chair, shuts his eyes. “Do me.”

Remus’ gaze flies to him. “What?”

“Do my eyeliner, you shit. If you’re the best, then I want the best fucking eyeliner.”

“Oh.” Remus pats around on the dressing table for Lily’s liner pen. “You could stand to be more specific with your requests,” he mutters offhandedly.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Remus casts him a dubious look. Sirius’ grin tells him he hasn’t missed a word.

“Go on, then.”

“You can’t move.”

“Yes sir, Lupin, sir.”

Remus snorts, uncaps the pen and slowly bends over him. Sirius twitches when the tip of the pen first touches his skin, but compliantly lets Remus line his upper eyelid. When he reaches the corner, he doesn’t wing it. “Can you make it really thick?” Sirius whispers, but his mouth barely moves, and Remus only lets himself grin because Sirius’ eyes are closed and he won’t know the difference.

“McGonagall would beat me to a pulp with her ancient pointe shoes if I let her Cavalier onstage done up all goth.”

Sirius sighs longsufferingly. Remus watches from too close as his lips puff out, pink and soft, and moves to the other eye, before hesitating. “Er, you’ve got a little…” he trails off, eyes hyper-focused on Sirius’ cupid’s bow, where a spot of foundation conceals its left peak. Sirius’ lips stay tender under his touch as Remus scrapes it away with the tip of his nail.

Then Sirius licks them. Remus swallows dry. “You done yet?” whispers Sirius, eyes still closed.

“I’ve only done one eye, Sirius.”

“You should get back to it, then, mate.” It comes out as a streaming mumble of consonants, and not a muscle moves in Sirius’ face. Remus chuckles helplessly, wonders if Sirius can feel his breath on his skin, on his delicate fans of thick inky lashes, and he lines Sirius’ eye in thin black, caps the eyeliner, drops it somewhere to the floor and lowers himself onto Sirius’ lap. Remus’ hands move to his jaw and he pries gently with his thumb at the soft weight of his bottom lip, kisses him fleetingly before he can think better of it. Sirius’ eyes flutter open.

“I need you to, er.” Remus breathes in, feeling oncoming lightheadedness. Sirius’ thighs warm his from below, their breaths commingle. Remus’ head goes hot at the thought of breathing in Sirius’ pre-show cigarette. “Need you to look up so I can get under your bottom eyelashes.”

“Fuck that, Lupin, fuck it all to hell,” Sirius whispers, and then his hands are covering Remus’ waist and drawing him in, seeking out his mouth. Remus doesn’t make it hard to find, strokes thumbs over Sirius’ cheeks as Sirius’ tongue begs into his mouth and his fingers dig insistently into the muscle around his spine. For Remus it’s a sensory overload; the storm cloud that’s been growing over his head, saturating day by day, releasing and storming and thundering and lightning all over him, drenching him in _Sirius_ , and when he keens — _what the fuck he’s never so noisy_ — it’s because Sirius nips at his lower lip. Sirius gathers him by his ass, stands out of the chair and deposits Remus onto the dressing table where he coaxes Remus’ legs around his hips, runs his warm palms from the undersides of his knees and down his thighs, following the line of muscle to Remus’ bum. “Christ, Lupin —”

 _“All divertissement dancers to backstage for_ The Nutcracker _, act two.”_

Remus’ toes curl behind Sirius’ back, his neck arches as Sirius curves around him and Remus responds by hauling Sirius impossibly closer between his legs by his ass. Then he pulls back fast, head bumping against the mirror behind, and stares past Sirius’ shoulder, wide-eyed. “Fuck, that’s me,” he whispers and shoves at Sirius’ chest, who whines in protest and bites at Remus’ shoulder through his costume. He slides off the dressing table, rights his Candy Cane hat, and grabs his hula hoop from the floor. Remus hesitates by the door, struck breathless by the sight of Sirius lounging like _this_ in his dressing room, smirk easy and eyes dark.

“Merde, Lupin,” says Sirius.

“You too.” Remus hangs off the door handle as it opens, scanning Sirius head to toe. “Might want to fix your hair, Cavalier.” Then he slips out.

In the wings, waiting with his candy cane kids to welcome Marie and the Prince to the Kingdom of Sweets, it doesn’t take much for Remus to muster up a smile for the stage.

***

After the show, Remus is wrapping his scarf around his neck, used makeup wipes in one hand that he’s yet to find a place to discard, when Sirius catches up to him outside the theater.

“Lupin, I’ve been looking for you,” he says accusingly. Remus stops in his tracks. “Barely even recognized you out here. You look like —” Sirius shakes his head, gestures vaguely to Remus. “A marshmallow.”

Remus blinks, stuffs the wipes into his pocket. It’s the end of November, he’s in his woolen coat and scarf and hat. And mittens. Sirius, naturally, even with the wind whipping through the back of his hair — the front of it’s still gelled —  is only in that leather jacket of his. “Sorry?” Remus says and continues down the Lincoln Center stairs.

Sirius’ quick steps follow him. “Where are you going?”

Remus chuckles. “Home.”

“You’re walking? Don’t walk. I called us a cab.”

“You _called_ one?” Remus peers back at Sirius. “You know you can hail them, right? And it’s only a twenty minute walk. I think I can handle it.”

Sirius’ nose crinkles as he looks at Remus. “I wanted to be sure there’d be one. And — hey, hey, if you’re in such a hurry, a twenty minute walk will be — what? A three minute drive?” He catches Remus’ elbow, drags him toward the curb where the yellow taxi awaits. The streets are clear of patrons, the show ended an hour ago. “My treat.”

Remus sighs, unsure of what he’s done to deserve a treat, but Sirius isn’t giving him much of an option. He climbs in and Sirius follows, and Remus wonders if he’s going to have to give him a talking-to, a _you’re not coming home with me_ talking-to, but the thought slips his mind when the taxi takes off from the curb before Remus can get his seatbelt on.

He looks skeptically through the rearview mirror at the driver, who’s done nothing but wave at Sirius since they got in, and leans over to whisper to Sirius, “Does he know where we’re going?”

Sirius smiles. “Mhm.”

Remus hugs his bag in his lap, looks out the window. He’s not sure how he doesn’t notice it sooner, but a few blocks from Lincoln Center, he sits up, clears his throat. “Er, sorry sir, but we’re going the wrong way —”

“Nah, we’re not,” Sirius interrupts, leans over to call through the partition, “You’re doing great, Fletch.”

Remus stares blankly at Sirius. “We’re going downtown. I live uptown of the theater.”

Sirius shrugs, curls his fingers around a rung of Remus’ headrest. “We’re taking a scenic route.”

Remus slumps down in his seat, pinches the bridge of his nose. “In Saturday night traffic?”

“As it happens, yes.”

Remus drops his head back. “Bastard,” he whispers, then sits upright again, pointing at the driver. “Is he even a real cab driver?”

“Fletcher? Of course he is. He’s great. He lives in the flat below mine. Retired printmaker. You should see some the shit he’s made, so fucking cool —”

“Sirius,” Remus says carefully, considering his words, aware he’s on the very tip of losing his temper. “I’m tired. And I’d like to go home.”

Sirius begins to pout. “Please —”

“At the next red light, I’m going to get out and fucking walk.”

“No! Lupin!” Sirius scoots so he’s in the middle seat, sandwiching Remus against the door of the cab. “Lupin, please. It’s just a detour. Won’t take long. We’ll just go ‘round the park, then drop you off, okay?” His hand curls compellingly over Remus’ thigh.

“I’m _not_ paying for you to kidnap —”

“All on me, of course.”

Remus focuses out the window again. In surrender, he plucks off his hat, loosens his scarf, peels his mittens off his hands. “You’re not coming over,” he mumbles, and it’s then that he feels Sirius smile against his neck, the warm skin that’s just slipped free of his scarf, and kiss below the angle of his jaw. Remus’ stomach swoops, utter putty in Sirius’ hands.

“Just dropping you off,” Sirius assures him.

Remus is content to stay that way, overheating between Sirius’ body and the ventilation in Fletcher’s cab in a sleepy post-show silence. But of its own volition, his mouth quietly forms the words, “Why’d you come here?”

“Here? To ride in an agonizingly slow circle around Central Park with you? I thought we’d just established that you understood my evil plan.” Sirius’ chuckle tickles his ear. Remus smiles to himself reluctantly.

“No. New York, why’d you come to New York?”

“Oh.” Sirius shifts against him. The cab rolls to another stop. Remus feels oddly at ease, even with Fletcher spying on them and Sirius so close, still holding onto Remus’ headrest. “My uncle died. He lived here, in the Upper West Side. Left his flat to me, among other things. I won’t say it was good timing, of course not, but it was more like… a wakeup call. I grew up in Islington, went to school in London, joined a London ballet company. It was time to get out of bloody London.”

“You could’ve gone to school anywhere after the Prix de Lausanne,” says Remus absently, when he really should be offering Sirius condolences for his uncle. He glances at him, jumpy. “I meant — I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Were you close?”

Sirius just smirks at him. It’s because Remus mentioned the Prix, he knows it. “I was fifteen when I won. Still cared enough what my mum thought of me to want to be close to home, prove to her that if I was going to be a _professional hobbyist_ — mum’s words — I’d be a damn good one.” He laughs. “If I’d gone to Russia, Paris, even, she’d would’ve been able to avoid my face on the ads.” Sirius snorts, runs his fingers through his hair. “My uncle was the only one who didn’t think I was a waste of space for not wanting to go to uni and do fucking investment banking. So… close, in a way.” He watches Remus, smirk prevailing. “The Prix —”

“I remember it,” Remus cuts in before Sirius can have the satisfaction, leaning into the corner between the seat and the door. “I was outrageously jealous. And even then you were…“ He flicks his hand in Sirius’ direction, lets it drop to his thigh with a clap. “Unbelievably good.”

Sirius holds a hand delicately to his chest. “Why, Lupin, I do think that’s the only compliment you’ve ever given me.”

Remus shrugs. “Well, I mean it.” When Sirius’ smile goes wide, almost manic, Remus rolls his eyes to the window. They’re heading up the park’s east border.

“You know I meant it, too, when I said you were fantastic.” Sirius’ thigh plasters to the side of Remus’ leg. “And you should know, Lupin, that poor dancing makes me laugh and mediocre dancing turns me off, but I can get off on watching _good_ dancing. Really good dancing.” Remus sputters when Sirius nips behind his ear, crowds him against the door, and turns abruptly. It’s a mistake, because their noses are an inch apart.

“You’re not coming over,” he whispers, palm to Sirius’ hard sternum. “And we’re not hooking up in the back of Fletcher’s cab.”

Sirius drops his forehead to Remus’, not a long distance, and sighs against his mouth. “Can’t sit your arse on me in your dressing room and not expect me to want you.”

Decidedly, Remus turns his head to look down at his lap and pull on his mittens for reasons unknown. His cheeks are burning. Sirius sags into him, nose pressing to the hollow of Remus’ cheek. “I was overcome,” Remus mutters.

Sirius skips the opportunity for puns, gets straight to breathlessly begging, “Please let me fuck you.”

“Sirius.” Remus knows now why he needed the mittens. With reluctance, he pushes Sirius’ face away, a full fuzzy layer between them so he himself doesn’t subconsciously get any ideas. Heat still prickles down his spine and to his crotch. Remus drops his voice. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve —?” He evades Sirius’ gaze. “We can’t. I’m a dancer. We both are. You _know_ that I can’t just come into work one day, get onstage and _move_ like I can still feel —” His lips tighten.

Sirius tilts his head against Remus’ headrest. “Fine. We don’t have to shag. We can do something else. Shit, I could name a hundred things I’d want to do to you. For you.”

Remus rubs scratchy mittened hands over his face. He’s sweating under his collar and it’s hard, with the darkness and meaningless blur of traffic through the window, to not visualize. “Romeo is… I need to focus. I can’t fuck this up for myself. I can’t have any — distractions.”

“I’m a distraction?” Sirius’ tone is less wry.

Remus says nothing for a while. They’re motionless in traffic. “We shouldn’t.”

“Because it’s unprofessional?” Sirius asks stonily.

Remus nods wordlessly. Sirius doesn’t press it.

***

“Lupin.”

A nudge of something soft to his head. A pepper of kisses, or something that makes tiny _tch_ sounds against his hair. Fingers massage at the back of his neck.

“Remus.”

Remus opens his eyes. His cheek sticks slightly as he peels it away from Sirius’ leather-covered shoulder. The taxi is parked at the curb outside his building and Fletcher leans against the driver’s side window, smoking. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he blurts, gathering his shit in a rush because he’s just slept against Sirius’ shoulder for god knows how long. When he opens the cab door, he goes stumbling out like water that’s just broken through a dam, but catches his bag before it can hit the ground.

“Don’t be,” says Sirius, who’s, _great_ , climbing out after him. “Do you want me to take you up?”

Remus, batting the sleep from his eyes, thinks first of James and Lily, undoubtedly up in the apartment right now. “No, that’s fine. I’m not… incapacitated.” _Just stupid_.

Sirius steps forth, smile strangely kind. “Sure about that?”

Remus nods frenetically. “Yeah.” Clears his throat. “Good night.” He gets inside the building without looking back at Sirius. When he enters the apartment, James is on the couch, guitar in his lap, and Lily is on its opposite end, bare feet in a bucket of ice. Remus can only tell she’s awake from the way her fingers dance to the melody James plucks.

“Hey,” says Lily, turning to look Remus’ way and resting her cheek against the cushions. “Where’ve you been?”

“Just… out.” Lily’s left eyebrow twitches. “Gonna turn in for the night.” He backs into the darkness of the hallway, shuts himself into his room.

Lily’s knock is identical to James’ and she steps into the bedroom while Remus is still shedding his layers. She’s dried her feet, thankfully. “So, I know it seems far off, but I also know I have to ask you now so you won’t blame me for springing it on you last-minute. James’ parents are going on a… a winter safari, or something, and they offered for us to spend New Year’s at their Hamptons house.”

Remus rolls his scarf up into a ball, smiling faintly. “And I suppose you want me there to reach the mysterious stains James will manage to get on the ceiling?”

Lily leans against the door. “That’s the only reason.” Then she rolls her eyes. “No, _Remus_ , even you can’t reach those ceilings, they’re too high. Please?” She skips to him, clings to his elbow. “None of us genuinely like gin the way you do. Someone’s got to drink it.”

Remus chuckles, bumps his hip against her side. “Yeah, sure.”

“Good.” She pats him happily on the bottom. “We’ll ask Dorcas and Marlene, the Prewetts, and Alice claims she’s got a new man…” She thinks, then pokes a finger into Remus’ shoulder. “Put it in your calendar. We’re leaving the morning of New Year’s Eve, spending the day getting the place ready. I want some kind of photo booth setup, too, so bring your camera. My followers know Sirius joined our company and they’re furious I haven’t posted more of him.”

Remus snorts, sinks down onto his bed. He realizes as he’s rubbing at his jaw that there’s something like drool dried onto his cheek. “Charming, your followers.”

“Most of the time they absolutely are. Not that you’d know anything about that, grandpa.”

“Let a man live, have his Instagram under an alias —”

“And _never_ post? The alias is weird enough. No one follows you but me and porn bots.”

“I like all your pictures.” Remus never logs on. Social media escapes him. “Or most of them. What more do you want from me?”

“Lily,” James call echoes warily from the hall. “I’m on the infomercial channel and I don’t know how to get out.” A pause. “Also may have spilled your ice.”

“I’m going to kill him,” sighs Lily, tousling Remus’ hair before heading out his door with a reminder of “Put it on your calendar!”

***

Sirius keeps his distance from Remus every way but physically. In class, he stands between Lily and Remus during barre, chats to the former, sneaks shuttered glances at the latter. Rehearsing for _Romeo and Juliet_ , he dances with and holds fast to Remus and Benjy, their Benvolio, like they’ve never been anything but partners in crime, like their blood is thicker than water. McGonagall eats it up, of course, overtly pleased with her choice of Mercutio. And on Nutcracker evenings, Remus watches Sirius from the barre in the wing throughout his pas de deux with the Sugar Plum Fairy, his masterful footwork in the Coda.

For both Lily and Remus it was long ago that the holiday season became Nutcracker season. Still, when the time comes, Lily lights her menorah nightly though Remus doesn’t bother with a Christmas tree. He sends his parents gifts from Barneys and as a present to Lily oils all the squeaky hinges in their apartment. She buys them a new toaster, a pink retro one, though it really should’ve been James’ job after his attempts to make grilled cheese in their late toaster set off their building’s fire alarm, but he’d at least fronted their landlord’s bill for that. The winds get frigid and it snows once, stays cold enough to keep Central Park blanketed in white for almost two weeks. It all melts away for an unseasonably warm final performance of _The Nutcracker_ on the evening of December thirtieth. Lily closes the season as Sugar Plum, Sirius as her Cavalier and Remus with Hot Chocolate. Lily pronounces it necessary to drink to the end of their season, ready their bodies for New Year’s Eve the next night, but Remus finds her passed out against her makeup table in her dressing room before they can even leave the theater. With only a few conciliatory words exchanged, Sirius helps Remus get Lily out of her tutu and makeup and pointe shoes and together they’re able to dump her into James’ waiting arms, though it means they have to relieve him of his large bouquet of white lilies. Remus gets into the front seat of James and Lily’s cab with the bouquet, and Sirius bids them — James, mainly — goodbye with promises of getting to the Potters’ house in the Hamptons _before midnight, please, Black_ , per James’ request.

James has a car he uses approximately two days a year and pays city-rate parking fees for the other three hundred and sixty-three, an old full-size Chrysler Town & Country with fucking wood panels. It’s the next morning that Lily hauls into its trunk an old theater case of costumes she’s accumulated over the years, hellbent on having that photo booth, and sends Remus back up eight floors to get the camera he nearly forgets to bring. He ends up forgetting his coat instead. Halfway through their drive to the Hamptons, they pass a liquor store and together James, arguing his C-list celebrity status and worries about being papped, and Lily, claiming her arms are sore from all her Sugar Plumming last night, gang up on Remus to be the one to buy their evening’s worth of alcohol while the two of them make out in the car.

He has to make two trips from the checkout counter.

Remus has never visited the Potters’ home — second home — in Southampton, and he’s not sure he’s seen something so grand in his lifetime. “Benjy says he’s bringing fireworks!” trills Lily, prancing past Remus who has clinking plastic bags full of bottles throttling the pulse at his each elbow. He’s yet to stomach the high-ceilinged entryway, the walkway straight to the beach, the pool, the interiors decorated all in faded blue and white. Remus takes a nap in one of the six bedrooms while James and Lily drive off to a party store to buy balloons and stupid glasses with the new year on them. When he wakes up he fills a bathtub on the first floor with ice and bottles of champagne, and when Lily and James return, he spends another hour with a helium tank and sixty balloons in metallic shades. The balloon-filling process is dull, and it’s in the early afternoon that James begins to experiment with cocktails with Remus as his guinea pig. Some are horrible, others are decent. Balloon-filling becomes thus less dull.

Benjy arrives just as the sun is setting with a pickup full of fireworks — illicit, thinks Remus — and a backseat full of Dorcas and Marlene. Other dancers from their company who are friends of Lily and friendly with Remus come as the night veers on, as well as the mildly strange crowd of dubious backgrounds from James’ music circles. They have green hair or purple lips and range from trying to feel up Remus’ arms to looking right through him in search of the nearest bathroom to hotbox. Lily traps Remus in the living room with his camera as the honorary photographer but plies him with gin cocktails of better quality than James’ as payment while she and her friends wear her old tutus around their heads like lions or she and James kiss or Marlene poses with her face in the neckline of Dorcas’ low-cut top, which she claims is just for the camera.

And while Dorcas runs out to the beach to watch Benjy test his first firework, Marlene hangs back for Remus’ sake.

“We’re onto rehearsals for _As Yet Untitled Queer Ballet_ , act three,” Marlene tells him over her flute of champagne.

Remus, thumbing absently through the pictures on the camera, looks up at her. “You finished casting?”

Marlene grins, teeth sparklingly white between red lips. “I finished casting.”

Remus nudges her with his elbow. “That’s great.”

“It’s a group piece. Fifteen dancers. I liked too many from this one indie company so I decided to cast them all. McGonagall’s going to freak.”

Remus turns in a circle in search of his glass, which he’s left on an end table beside a golden leopard-shaped lamp. He picks it up, taps his glass to Marlene’s. “To McGonagall freaking.”

Marlene nods, takes a sip from her glass. “I’ll let her be at peace this next week. When winter rehearsals start, though, truth’s coming out. Have the stretcher ready, Lupin, in case she passes out.”

By quarter to twelve, Remus is slumped against the couch, cheek squished against his hand, eyes closed. Everyone is beginning to gather outside for the midnight fireworks, courtesy of Benjy, and Remus had gone to follow before boozily nearly braining himself on the marble slab of the kitchen counter. He’d sat down instead.

The cushions bob beside him. When Remus cracks an eye open, Sirius is there, bottle of beer in hand, legs spread comfortably. He’s gazing ahead at the panoramic night view of the beach through the Potters’ wall of windows.

“No,” Remus groans, balancing his elbows on his knees, face in his palms.

“So much for civility,” says Sirius laughingly.

“No, I’m…” Remus sighs, twists around to look at Sirius, point a finger in his direction. He’s disgustingly attractive in the dim light of the living room, cheeks cast in soft luminous tones by the light glowing through the layer of balloons hugging the ceiling. And he’s in a black turtleneck taut to the contours of his body. “Sirius, I’m really very drunk and you’re the last person I want to see right now.”

Sirius smirks. “Afraid you’ll be _overcome_?” he murmurs wryly, sucking down a gulp of his beer.

Remus stares at him, vision swimming with Sirius in a pulsing dizzying halo, heart lurching against his ribcage as if longing to be freed. “Yes,” he says blankly, then sags against the couch again, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“So,” says Sirius, patting out a rhythm against the couch. “Hear me out.”

Remus laughs despite himself, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “I don’t even want to know.”

“ _Hear me out_ , Lupin. I’ve kept my distance, as you’ve noticed. But I’d like to offer a compelling argument as to why you should kiss me at the stroke of midnight.” From the corners of his eyes, Remus watches as Sirius downs the rest of his beer, the column of his throat smooth but half-hidden by the collar of his shirt. “First, I have no one to kiss.”

Remus’ lips twitch helplessly. “Well, does James know you’re here?”

Sirius ignores him. “Second, you’re in here alone while everyone else is outside. Now, I still won’t go so far as to assume you haven’t anyone to kiss, so instead I’ll propose the question: would you _like_ to kiss someone at the stroke of midnight?”

Remus quirks an eyebrow at him, cheek pressed to the couch cushion. “How polite.”

“Civility.”

Remus watches him a moment in silence. Faded laughter from outside echoes against closed windows. Sirius lifts a finger, gets onto his feet. “Hold that thought.” He strides out of the living room, returns momentarily with a bottle of champagne still dripping water from its melted ice bath. Peeling off the foil and wire, he pops the cap safely and easily. It just misses the leopard-shaped lamp. Sirius gestures at him as he eases back onto the couch.

“I wouldn’t mind it,” Remus mumbles eventually, not quite looking at Sirius.

Sirius nods. “Argument one is solid.” He swigs from the champagne bottle and clears his throat. “I have no one to kiss, I’d like to kiss you, and you wouldn’t mind a kiss.” He nods again, quicker this time. “Argument two: we’ve snogged before. Once. So, Lupin, I’d like an honest opinion. What did you think? Did you enjoy it? How was I?”

“Good,” says Remus before he can think better of it. “I mean — shit.” He rubs his fingers into his eyes, coughs. “Fine. It was enjoyable, if short.”

Sirius wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand after overzealously gulping champagne. “Argument two’s solid, too, it seems. You liked snogging me. I’m good at it. Therefore, I ought to make a good candidate to snog you again in…” He drags his phone out of his pocket. “Nine minutes.”

Remus sits, unmoving, then staggers onto his feet. “Haven’t I embarrassed myself enough?”

Sirius sits up, eyes tracking him. “Sorry?”

Remus stumbles a bit but stays generally stable on his way out of the living room. He finds himself in what he supposes is the formal dining room, lined with shelves of impressive fine china and artistic metalwork. He tries to turn the lights on, but winces at the brightness of the lurid patterned wallpaper and shuts them off. The dining room’s windows also look out onto the beach, where most of the partiers are huddled together in penguin-like formation, bundled up under layers and waiting to ring in the new year. He catches onto the back of a chair for balance. “I attacked you backstage, which was… _totally_ misleading for you,” he says, like he’s speaking to the room. “Then I fell asleep on you. And ran out on you.”

Remus can’t even be sure Sirius is there or listening, but the floor creaks behind him as Sirius steps into the dining room. Remus turns, watches as Sirius raises a dark brow at the ostentatious decor. “You explained it perfectly fine, Lupin.” Sirius shrugs. “I’m distracting —” There’s something smug about the way he says it, but Remus doesn’t comment —  “You don’t want distractions. I’m not trying to pull anything on you. I think we should kiss, for the fun of it, and then I’ll go back to what I’ve been doing for the last five weeks and you’ll go off and make a brilliant Romeo.”

Remus’ fingers trace the intricate carvings — roses, maybe — in the back of the chair. “ _For the fun of it?_ ” he echoes, moving to circle the dining table.

Sirius scoffs, follows him, sets the bottle of champagne on the table. “No, not for fun. Because I’m selfish and miserable.”

Remus does something like a soutenu to face Sirius. “Miserable?” he laughs.

Sirius’ small smile is a bit pained. “Stop repeating everything I say.”

“I didn’t mean to. It’s just — _miserable_?” Remus questions, and then his heel catches on a roll in the rug and he bumps into the glass case behind him, sending a colorful vase teetering over the shelf’s edge and careening into — Sirius’ hands.

Sirius sets the vase in its rightful place, now less than a step away from Remus. “Forget I said anything,” he says gruffly.

“Is it because I wouldn’t go out with you?” Remus whispers, frowning thoughtfully at Sirius’ mouth rather than his eyes. Lovely as his eyes are, they’re just not as interesting as the tense pout to Sirius’ lips. “But you’ve been so good about — as if you thought nothing’d ever happened. Like you didn’t care.”

Sirius leans against the dining table opposite Remus. “You’re surprised I can act?”

Remus checks over his shoulder, ensures he isn’t in the way of some priceless Potter artifact, then looks at Sirius. “What?”

“Lupin, Mercutio’s just fine dancing with you. I wouldn’t be doing my job if he wasn’t.” Sirius tugs at the ends of his hair, examines them as if he could possibly pick out split ends in the poor light. “And I wasn’t going to keeping harassing you, for fuck’s sake. That’s not in my job description, either.”

Remus looks on, blank, unfazed even by the sudden chorus of whoops and hollers outside, the cacophony of explosions and light that colors the side of Sirius’ face in yellow and red. Sirius, on the other hand, turns his head to look out the window, then feels again for his phone. He checks the time, but Remus doesn’t look away from his face. “Fucking idiots,” mutters Sirius. “It’s only 11:59.”

“Is it,” Remus says, almost unfeelingly, taking steps toward Sirius.

“Yes, look,” Sirius responds, holding up his phone, but Remus steps past his arm and into his space, fingers hesitant but making themselves known on Sirius’ hips. He kisses him, keeps his eyes open and on the light dancing over Sirius’ skin until their lips make contact, and that’s when Sirius reacts in kind, drawing Remus in by the back of his shoulder. It’s gentle and dry and Sirius’ lips taste like spilt champagne and when Remus withdraws for a breath, Sirius’ eyes remain shut. “Huh.” He breathes and Remus feels it against his face. “Is it midnight yet?” The fireworks crackle on outside. Lily’s distinct off-key singing trills between bursts. The grandfather clock in the living room gives an answering _dong_ , which it repeats eleven times more. Sirius smiles broadly, shrugs, blinks open his eyes. “Thank you for that, then, Lupin. That’s all I wanted.”

Remus realizes he hasn’t yet seen the fireworks with his own eyes, only through their faded reflections in Sirius’ pellucid irises. And he realizes he doesn’t want to. Instead his fingers dig insistently into Sirius’ hips and he leans back in, chest heaving against Sirius’ with every breath as he presses close, kisses his chin and the corner of his mouth and his lips again. Sirius’ hands rub all the way up Remus’ arms to his neck and to the sides of his face, warm and rough.

It’s when Remus’ palm slides down against Sirius’ crotch that Sirius flinches backward, though holding Remus steady between his hands.

“Lupin,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Said I wouldn’t try anything on you.”

Remus has to chuckle, because for months since Leon he touched no other man until he invited Sirius to and then promptly shut him out with excuse after excuse. And perhaps his judgment is clouded. Perhaps he even likes it. “So you won’t,” mutters Remus, heat tingling in his cheeks, eyes zoned on Sirius’ lips. They’re the same height with Sirius’ ass against the dining table, legs ballasting him. Remus swallows hard, has to as he feels the shape of Sirius through his jeans, thick and hard and straining. _Desire_ , his head screams. “And if I try something on you?”

Sirius says nothing at first, but Remus sees him swallow, too, only because he’s looking. Light flits ambivalently over half Sirius’ face, and then he’s rutting up into Remus’ hand, their noses bumping as they kiss again though Sirius should have better control. The intent gets lost somewhere, fades between the dappled color on Sirius’ cheek that paints the whites of his eyes an animalistic gold as he pants into Remus’ mouth. Remus’ fingers fumble his jeans open, and he loves the feel of Sirius’ cock throbbing through the worn cotton of his underwear, restrained by Remus’ palm, loves reaching down further to rub over his balls and make him gasp. Sirius’ hands cling to Remus’ shoulders, penning them both inside the square of limbs and bodies, and Remus brings his hands up between their chests to caress Sirius’ cheek, soft and freshly-shaved, and cups his other hand just below his lips. He quickly works up a bit of saliva in his mouth, which is harder than he expects it to be as he’s been hydrating with alcohol for hours now, and spits carefully into the cupped hand, eyes flashing to Sirius’ face. Dark lashes, the tip of his nose shiny-firework-bright.

“Now you,” Remus says, and Sirius does the same without hesitation, and it makes Remus’ heart drip feeling down to his toes watching it, watching the spit slick Sirius’ lower lip glossy. So he kisses him. His knuckles graze a path down Sirius’ body and he slips his hand into his briefs, wraps his slick hand around his cock, strokes slow but building. Sirius bites Remus’ lip in shock and it stings and he whispers an apology into Remus’ mouth before dropping his forehead to Remus’ shoulder. Remus bites him back, gently behind his ear even if Sirius’ hair gets trapped between his eyelashes. He likes being swallowed by it, almost, in pure blackness while the room still pulses with the fireworks’ color and sound though Sirius’ heavy exhales might as well be as loud as said fireworks.

Remus jerks him quick and peers down between them to see enough to tease him a bit, rub his thumb against his slit, squeeze along the base. Remus thinks he’s sweating and it must be wetting Sirius’ forehead where it touches his skin but he doesn’t seem to care so Remus doesn’t either, and when Sirius comes it’s sudden and raspy and into Remus’ palm.

The voices outside get louder as they approach the house — Benjy must have run out of rockets — but the dining room is still dark and Remus steps away from Sirius but with a stroke of luck doesn’t knock the colorful vase over. He waits for Sirius to fix himself up, button up his jeans again and tug his turtleneck down and tousle his hair in a practiced way, but he can’t wait too long because his come’s dripping off his fingers like ice cream melting down the cone and onto his hand so he twists his head to lick it away. He knows he’s got Sirius’ attention by then, and the back doors open in the adjacent kitchen and Marlene laughs obnoxiously and someone knocks over an empty bottle but they’re still hidden by walls and Remus keeps Sirius fixated as he tongues his hand clean, bitter as it may be, but it’s worth every second of the look in Sirius’ eyes.

“I saw Sirius’ bike in the driveway,” says James against the excitement and clamor, and then the lights go on and illuminate the gaudy wallpaper. Remus clasps his hands behind his back. Lily leans against the doorway, drunken simply in her stance, and raises her brows at the two of them.

“He’s in here,” she calls.

“Hey, Red,” says Sirius, betraying no sheepishness. James appears momentarily.

“ _Du_ de!” James laughs brightly, and Sirius meets him in the middle to clap each other on the back. “I said before midnight, you fucking bastard.”

“And I heard you, mate,” Sirius says, “Would’ve been here even sooner if I’d known you’d try to blow your head off.”

“That was all Fenwick, man! And his head’s still on.”

Remus edges past them into the kitchen to wash off his hands. Lily comes to stand close and scrutinize him through her _2019_ glasses, lenses in the zero and the loop of the nine. “Why were you and Black in the dining room with the lights off?”

Remus soaps up a second time, though this might only serve to make Lily more skeptical. “Could see the fireworks out the window without freezing our asses off. I left my coat at home.”

Lily leans up against the counter. “Did you reconcile, then?” When Remus meets her eyes, questioning, her head flops to the side with inebriated drama. “He told me a while ago he didn’t think you liked him.” Her lips purse. “Don’t tell him I told you.”

Remus scans her face, red hair messy from her knitted hat, cheeks flushed from alcohol and the cold, and green eyes lidded, and flicks his soapy fingers at her. “We’re fine.”

“Group photo!” Marlene hoots, waving her arms about. She’s gotten hold of Remus’ camera, is setting it up on a tripod in the living room. “Everybody get in!” Sirius and James stride back into the kitchen, and on his way to the living room, Sirius takes Remus by the elbow.

“Marls, Marlene, hey, look,” Sirius is saying as they all cluster together. Lily settles into a split on the floor, then begins to question aloud whether she’ll be visible in the picture. Sirius turns to face Remus, squeezes his shoulders. “Right, shoulder sit from our pas de deux, yeah? Show her we’ve not forgot a thing.”

“Sirius,” breathes Remus with a shaky laugh, but before he can protest further Sirius turns him around and gets his hands onto Remus’ waist and he has to comply and plié and jump up on Sirius’ count. James’ odd music friends cheer when Sirius gets Remus perched up on one of his shoulders. He’s too drunk to stay up there long and Sirius is too drunk to hold him there, but he’s not scared.

“Lupin, Lupin, come on, attitude croisée devant!” Sirius calls up to him, and Remus clumsily lifts his leg, points his toes while Sirius hollers, “Someone take the fucking picture!”

It will turn out that Lily’s legs and Remus from the shoulders up don’t make it into the frame. But he doesn’t know that as Sirius lets him down gently, and as Remus grabs onto the front of his turtleneck for balance, it’s also so he can murmur into his ear, “Give me ’til Sunday the twenty-second. That’s when Alastor Moody’s set to come watch our _Romeo and Juliet_.” Alastor Moody’s review, the nail on his coffin or his golden ticket to heaven. His fingers come loose on Sirius’ shirt and he draws away, eyes wide as if to check for understanding.

Sirius blinks, presses the palms of his hands contemplatively together beneath his nose, speaks against them. “And then…”

Remus nods.

“Oh, come on,” gripes Lily, hunched over the tripod. “Nobody move! This picture’s crap. Your head’s missing, Remus! It’s not even good enough for Leeroy Rumpkin’s Instagram. We’re taking another.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ballets mentioned:  
> [George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker: Hot Chocolate (Spanish Dance)](https://youtu.be/2GVsy8gg7o4) (Remus)  
> [George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker: Candy Canes](https://youtu.be/uv0ATnqubrM) (Remus)  
> [George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker: Sugar Plum Fairy and Cavalier Grand Pas de Deux](https://youtu.be/9xFYNmwUrng) (Sirius/partner (sometimes Lily))  
> [George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker: Sugar Plum Fairy and Cavalier Coda](https://youtu.be/9xFYNmwUrng?t=326) (Sirius/partner (sometimes Lily))


	4. In fair Verona

The second and third weeks of January are a whirlwind. Remus watches the new set of old Verona come together, completely redone despite Dumbledore’s old set sitting in storage, ducks his head when he passes promotional posters of himself and Lily entwined adoringly in one another’s arms, takes daily trips up five flights of stairs to Poppy Pomfrey’s physical therapy office for routine checkups and excellent massages.

McGonagall does not, in fact, _freak_ over Marlene’s massive casting, as it’s at dress rehearsal for the group piece that Marlene finally tells her. Every dancer is in unique costume, reminiscent of drag performance clothes worn in the city’s seventies and eighties. The dance itself is lively, heart-racing and theatrical to the tune of a jazzy, cabaret-esque song composed by James. And as the dancers freeze for their final pose, all fifteen of them — Remus and Sirius sit a few seats apart in the audience, observing before they’ll be hounded off for _Romeo and Juliet_ business — McGonagall turns to Marlene, graces her with a rare smile not unlike the one she gave Remus when she gave him the news of Romeo, and says, “I assume you’ve been in talks with marketing. It’s about time we start publicizing.” McGonagall squints at the stage, then eyes Marlene once again. “Every piece has a theme, it seems, but have you found a title yet?”

Marlene nods. “ _Pas de Tout_.” When McGonagall blinks at her from behind her spectacles, she only adds, “ _Pas de Tout_. Not pas de deux, step of two, but pas de tout. Step of all.” Marlene purses her lips in thought. “I thought it was better than going for a play on _The Red Shoes_. _The Rainbow Shoes_ sounds like a children’s cartoon.”

McGonagall already smiled once, so she doesn’t again, but she does look upon Marlene with appreciation. “Very well. I’ll need the stage in ten, Mrs McKinnon, for _Romeo and Juliet_.”

In Marlene’s book, it’s enough of an approval to have her cartwheeling down the aisle the moment McGonagall steps out of the theater. She kisses the face of each dancer onstage. Sirius and Remus applaud her from the audience, smile up at her fondly.

“I quite like _The Rainbow Shoes_ , though,” mutters Sirius to Remus. There’s two empty seats between them, just enough to put them at arm’s length but close enough to hear underhanded comments.

Remus reclines in his seat. “You’d like it ’til the moment she actually put you in rainbow shoes.”

“She wouldn’t. Everyone knows I strictly wear black shoes.”

Remus snorts into the back of his hand. He feels Sirius’ eyes on his profile.

“You think that’s funny, Lupin?”

Remus’ head lolls against the back of the seat as he looks at Sirius. “I do.”

Sirius licks at his half-smirking lips. “You know what I think is funny? I could knock that smile right off your face, but that would mean entering your distraction-free bubble with malicious intent, and then, god forbid, you might be overcome.”

Remus begins to stand, shaking his head. “Fuck off.”

“Six days,” singsongs Sirius.

“Plenty of time for you to fuck off.”

***

Six days later is Sunday, the twenty-second of January. Fifteen minutes until the curtain is up, and still the buzz and white noise of the audience filing into their seats echoes through the theater. Remus stands backstage at the barre, doing mindless pas de chevals and messing with the tassels on his rope belt, the one tying his green tunic tight to his waist. He tastes the metallic warmth seconds before it splatters against the floor, and then swipes at his upper lip only for his hand to come away smeared with blood. Sirius and Benjy, Mercutio and Benvolio, are both set to go on for the first act alongside him, but it’s Sirius who notices Remus’ nosebleed faster than he does himself. He sidesteps the barre and holds Remus’ hand to his nose whilst steering him into the hall. “You’re fine, Lupin, you’re fine,” he’s saying.

“We’re on in fifteen!” Benjy whisper-yells after them.

“I’ll have her home by nine, sir,” is Sirius’ over-the-shoulder answer. Down the yellow-fluorescent lit hall, Sirius bumps open the door to Remus’ dressing room. “Sit down, I’ll stockpile toilet paper. Careful not to get it on your costume.” Slightly dizzily, Remus obeys and pinches at the bridge of his nose, and not thirty seconds later, Sirius returns with an excessively large wad of toilet paper that he offers Remus. Remus accepts the bundle with a grateful mutter and presses it to his nose. Sirius kneels in front of him.

“Did you eat?” Sirius asks, squeezing the tops of Remus’ feet. Remus nods dully, shuts his eyes.

“I forgot this always happens,” says Remus, ignoring the nasal quality to his voice. “Like clockwork, like _magic_ , whenever I have a new role. Leon would always…” He chuckles quietly. “Instead of getting me flowers for after the show, he’d get me a box of Kleenex for before.”

“Yeah?” Between the folds of toilet paper, Remus sees Sirius smile. He feels his hands, unshaking and warm, drag up Remus’ calves, then back down. “Least the man could’ve done was make an origami tissue bouquet.”

Remus grins, checks to see if the bleeding stopped. He hopes he’s not smudging his foundation off. Looking up, he kicks lightly at Sirius’ ankle as he dabs away the blood on his upper lip. “Well, where’s my fucking origami tissue bouquet?”

Sirius’ eyebrows rise challengingly. “Had you told me sooner about this little idiosyncrasy of yours, I might’ve had the time.”

Smilingly, Remus peers into his reflection in the mirror. His scar is still invisible under a layer of concealer. “Fuck,” he sighs. It’s odd, unsettling, even, watching the play of emotion on his own face as he feels Sirius kiss his knee, feels a tug and a rip at his oversized toilet paper wad.

 _“Dancers to backstage for_ Romeo and Juliet _, act one.”_

“Listen, Romeo, this is the best I can do right now.” Above his shoulder in the mirror there appears a small white toilet paper rose, layered swirls of paper nipped into a bud. Remus looks at Sirius through the mirror. He’s utterly handsome in his purple tunic, thick hair trimmed just enough that he can wear it down for the stage. From his fingers Remus picks the flower, turns it over in his hands, and lays it down on his dressing table. As he stands, now face to face with Sirius, he goes to thank him, but what Sirius says first is, “ _Merde_ , Lupin. Don’t fuck this up. I’d like you in a good mood after.”

A corner of Remus’ mouth lifts. He circles Sirius to get to the door. “Alastor Moody is in the audience tonight. If I don’t fuck this up, it’s not for you.”

Sirius laughs a few steps behind. “Of course not, but it also shouldn’t be for some dried-up dance critic.”

Remus scoffs. “That _dried-up dance critic_ ’s opinion matters.“

Somehow, Sirius jumps in front of him. Remus’ reaction time is fast enough that they don’t collide. “Does it though?” asks Sirius with his tilted smirk.

Remus wants to laugh. But they need to be onstage in five minutes, likely less, so he skirts past Sirius. “If Alastor Moody says I’m shit, what reason does anyone have to come watch me as Romeo?”

“The whole first week of _Romeo and Juliet_ is sold out, Remus. And the second week isn’t far from it. No one’s going to drop their tickets after one review.” In the darkness of backstage, Remus smiles politely at the stage crew, at McGonagall, and takes his place in the wing. The curtain is down and it’s dark, but even half-hidden the towering castled landscape of Verona is majestic. He feels Sirius touch his elbow. “And when has Alastor Moody ever given you flack? He’s been your biggest fan since you danced _Tarantella_ with McKinnon.”

Remus turns abruptly, locks eyes with Sirius. “How do you know about that?”

Sirius rubs at his jaw, over his lips, but there’s no hiding his smile. “Come off it, Lupin. If some sodding eighteen-year old nobody danced that bloody powerhouse of a ballet with one of the greatest ballerinas of our time and gets _praised_ for it, ’course I’d have read what all the hype was about.” Sirius shrugs, hands on his hips. “You know, having been an eighteen-year old nobody myself.”

Beyond the curtains, the orchestra launches into the overture. Remus feels vaguely existential for a moment, gazing at Sirius in the spreading glow of the spotlights coming to life. And then he thinks himself instantly overdramatic, yet still it is strange how things come to transpire, how Remus couldn’t have known eight years ago that he would meet Prix winner Sirius Black, and when he would, already knowing of him, Sirius would know of Remus, too, and that the two of them would be the first dancers to step onstage for New York City Ballet’s reimagined _Romeo and Juliet_.

“Keep up the constipated look and you’ll miss your cue,” mutters Sirius. The heavy velour of the curtain lifts, the strings in the orchestra pluck with a soft melody, and Remus hasn’t the time to kiss him or shove him away because it is indeed his cue.

***

At curtain call, the only thought passing through Remus’ mind is, as always, how ridiculous it must look from the audience’s point of view as the curtain rises and falls at least three times while they take their bows; first the soloists, then the soloists again, then the corps — every last Capulet and Montague — joined again by the soloists. Sirius gets a rather rowdy round of applause for his bow. Lily receives a bouquet that’s twice the size of her. Remus hasn’t the faintest idea where the last few hours have gone and his muscles are abuzz as if shocked he’s stopped moving. He releases Lily’s hand one last time to gesture her forward for a final curtsey, and as the goldenrod curtain descends again and the lights above fade from glaring and sticky-hot to bearable, Remus falls into a path of mindless hugs on the way to his dressing room. He squeezes McGonagall’s cold hands and only after swipes at the sweat on his brow without fear for smudging his makeup. He doesn’t expect to find his dressing room laden with elaborate flower bouquets on every open surface, and he has to stoop between them to find wipes to clean his face, cellophane crinkling and polleny fragrances tickling his nose. As he changes, he notices that the bouquet nearest him has a small note from McGonagall, thanking him for being her first Romeo.

His dressing room door opens. Remus watches, between the sprigs of flowers and through the mirror, as Sirius, fresh-faced and in street clothes, slips inside. Sirius is silent, and then, with his arms behind his head in a stretch that allows Remus to see far too much and still far too little of his bare stomach, he sneers, “Suck on that, Alastor Moody.”

Remus lowers his eyes, ties the laces of his sneaker. Smiles. “I think you made a few fans out there.”

Sirius looms over him suddenly, arms folded over the back of Remus’ chair. “Thanks for avenging my death.”

“Yeah, it was, y’know, in the choreography, so.” Remus’ eyes flit to the mirror as he lifts his head, then attempts, with a bit of awkwardness, to lay his head against Sirius’ crossed wrists. He peers up at him through the hair escaping from behind Sirius’ ears.

“Can’t believe you kissed Red with those lips.” Sirius grins. “And managed to make it look passionate.”

Remus’ eyebrows lift. “Did I?”

“Yeah.” Remus closes his eyes because Sirius plants a feathery-light kiss to the skin just below his eye. “Disgusting.” He withdraws, takes in each arm a bouquet, and kicks at a leg of Remus’ chair. “Up you get.”

Remus chuckles as he gets to his feet. “We’re leaving?”

“Mhm.”

“And you’re taking those with you?”

“Taking them to yours.” Before Remus can appropriately react, Sirius steps closer to him, gives him a knowledgeable look. “Don’t worry, I told Red and James to stay out of our way a while.”

Remus pales at this, then promptly reddens. “You _what_?”

“I’m joking, you wanker. They have dinner reservations. Let’s _go_.”

Remus follows Sirius out of the theater. He gathers from their direction that they’re headed for the subway, though he feels like an accessory to Sirius’ plan, ten steps behind. It’s once they’ve descended the stairs into the station and Sirius stands at the turnstiles with his arms still occupied by flowers that he wiggles his ass at Remus. “My metro card’s in my back pocket.”

Remus looks at him blankly, then reaches into the pocket of Sirius’ jeans. Sirius tells him, “Other one,” once Remus has already discovered that he’d been digging in the wrong pocket, swats him on the ass for it. Sirius gives a pleased laugh and edges sideways through the turnstile as Remus swipes him in, then himself.

The subway makes a timely arrival. There aren’t any seats left for them to take, and Sirius shifts the bouquets into one arm to grab the same pole as Remus.

As they lurch into motion, Remus gazes upon the flowers. “I don’t know why you were so intent on bringing those.”

Sirius moves closer to him, if only to step out of the way of a passenger disembarking, and looks at Remus with easygoing innocence. “You were brilliant tonight.”

Remus blinks and leans into the pole. “That’s why?”

Sirius nods. “Yeah. You can’t leave them all to rot in your dressing room. You need to wake up tomorrow and see flowers and remember that someone bought you a two-hundred dollar bouquet.” Sirius moves again, with no excuse this time, and Remus doesn’t know how he made it there but he’s leaning with his spine up against the pole, Sirius’ hand clutching at it just beside his neck. Remus tilts his head back, feels the brush of Sirius’ knuckles against his skin, the cold of the dirty pole against his scalp.

“Tell me again.”

Sirius, who’s been looking at him but apparently not _truly_ looking, says, “Hm?” and adjusts the flowers in his arms.

Remus suppresses a smile. “I just like hearing you say it.” There’s a spot of yellow pollen on the leather lapel of Sirius’ jacket. Unthinkingly, Remus dusts it off.

“Hearing me say how brilliant you were tonight?” Remus doesn’t acknowledge the question, because now it just sounds silly out loud, but it’s less so when Sirius leans into his ear, hums against the corner of his jaw, mutters, “You were brilliant tonight,” again. Slower, lower.

Remus swallows hard, nudges his fist into Sirius’ chest. “It’s our stop.”

Like emerging from underwater, Sirius blinks in a bemused daze as the subway skids to a halt but doesn’t stumble as he walks out its doors backwards. Remus does have to grab him by the arm, the flower-free one, before he walks directly into a pillar, but the remaining block to Remus and Lily’s apartment Sirius isn’t too much a safety hazard.

“So this is what I missed out on, huh? On Nutcracker opening night?” Sirius asks as he hovers on Remus’ heels. Remus is occupied with unlocking the door to the apartment.

“Shut up,” he says, but holds open the heavy door for Sirius to enter. The very first thing anyone sees stepping into their apartment is a cork board, cluttered with pinned cutouts of Lily from Harper’s Bazaar, Moody’s old review of Remus’ _Tarantella_ from the New York Times.

“Cute,” says Sirius, tapping his finger against newsprint-Remus’ head. Remus shuts the door, leans his weight against it and screws his face up in a grimace. Sirius doesn’t seem to mind, bouquet cellophane scratching along the walls of the narrow entryway as he turns to face Remus, trap him against the door as he seems to like to do, but Remus straightens suddenly and stops him with a hand to his chest.

“Um,” he whispers, eyes fixated on Sirius’ chest. The tattoo beneath his fingers in particular, the cryptic black shape that he drags his finger down. “I’m going to shower.”

In Remus’ peripheral vision, Sirius’ lips quirk up. “You’re going to shower.”

“Alone.”

Sirius hesitates before mumbling, “Okay.” He takes a step back. “I should get these in water.”

Remus nods quickly, points right and then left. “Kitchen’s there, vases are under the sink. My room’s that way, the — the door that doesn’t have the poster of James’ album art on it. Make yourself comfortable.” He leaves his shoes by the door and locks himself into the bathroom. It’s several minutes before he realizes he’s simply been staring into the mirror and he ought to consider turning on the water. Clangs of ceramic in the kitchen, Sirius’ weighty-booted footsteps marching past the bathroom door.

The mirror is steamed over by the time Remus deems himself clean enough. He scrubs his hair half-dry, then regrets even getting it wet, because in that little window he’s wiped for himself into the fog on the mirror it looks _awful_. Still he wraps a towel around his waist. The bathroom door makes no noise as he opens it, as he oiled all the hinges back in December, but Remus almost wishes it would. A warning, of sorts. So he doesn’t have to be the one clearing his throat, knocking on his own bedroom door.

He steps on Sirius’ black jeans in the hallway. His boots are neatly set beside Remus and Lily’s shoes. Curiously, Remus pads into the kitchen, finds it empty and unlit. The only signs of life are small water puddles on the counter, interspersed with the odd shed flower petal, catching orange by the street lamp glow through the window.

Sirius’ leather jacket has found its way onto their coat rack, and Sirius’ t-shirt lays on the floor near Remus’ bedroom door when he nudges it open. A massive bouquet in water on each nightstand. It seems dangerous, almost. And in between, Sirius lies back on Remus’ bed, socks and underwear still on, feet lazily propped up against the footboard. He’s zoned out on something out the window, absentmindedly playing with the waistband of his boxers. They’re tented. Remus wonders if his hand has been in them. And the scene, really, in Remus’ mediocre excuse of a bedroom — without a wall decoration in sight because he’s too concerned about losing his security deposit for holes in the wall or nicks in the paint, with crates of records shoved under his bed as if he’s ashamed when really there’s no floorspace for them anywhere else, with the piling gray unpersonable sheets he’s had since he lived with his aunt in Newark — is breathtaking.

He knocks gently against the doorframe, still clutching his towel in place. At Sirius, he cocks an eyebrow, kicks at the shirt on the floor. “Well, this is a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”

Sirius’ hand stills on his boxers, and his slate eyes go from Remus to himself. He scrambles to sit upright. “I’m — I thought —”

Remus feels in his heart a tug of ephemeral sadistic pleasure. He drops his towel next to Sirius’ shirt and closes the door. “You know I’m kidding, right?” Fingers drumming against the door, adrenaline coursing through his body, Remus nods at him. “You can take the rest off.”

Wordlessly Sirius sheds his boxers and socks. Remus goes to him, but slowly, so he can survey that look that befell Sirius’ eyes the moment his towel hit the floor. Remus climbs onto the squeaky mattress, hikes himself astride Sirius’ lap, settles down onto his thighs. He knows now that it’s better bare, skin to skin.

“I like what you did with the flowers,” mutters Remus. Sirius hasn’t moved except to more comfortably make room for him. Remus touches his nose to Sirius’ cheek, breathes in shakily. He still smells like performance, like his sweat and hairspray and the starchy new costume. “I have a day to recover, so.” He shrugs, grunts a bit as he feels the press of Sirius’ cock between his legs, traces with his fingertip the notch between Sirius’ collarbones. “It’s not much. But you can touch me.”

Sirius’ fingers slot on command into the valleys between his ribs. He looks Remus in the eye. “That was a bastard move back there, Lupin,” he says quietly.

Remus bites down hard on his lower lip, on his grin. “Sorry,” he says, without apology.

“You think it’s funny?”

Remus shrugs a shoulder, feels Sirius’ palm run up and down said shoulder seconds after. “I think it’s hilarious you thought I’d kick you out of my bed after you’d stripped and set up my flowers and touched yourself for me.” He smiles to himself when Sirius breaks eye contact to kiss Remus’ chin, move his mouth up his jaw. Remus strokes his hands over Sirius’ sturdy shoulders. “Which you did, didn’t you.”

Sirius reels him in until they’re chest to chest, a hand up Remus’ back, the other cupping his ass. “For weeks,” he says against his ear, sighs deep, bites at his earlobe, “you tortured me.”

“I’d said no distractions.” Remus cards fingers into the back of Sirius’ hair, finding the tension, the closeness, the reverence, everything between them much needed. “I’d tell you to ask me again, but you didn’t really ask the first time,” he murmurs.

“What didn’t I ask?” Sirius draws back, shudders audibly when Remus rolls his hips down against him, cups the side of Remus’ face in his palm.

“To fuck me.” Remus’ eyebrows twitch.

Sirius exhales unsteadily as he brushes his thumb across Remus’ cheek, his lower lip. His eyes are swallowed up by the black of his pupils. “Please.”

“Please?”

Sirius half-rolls his eyes, as if to say _you know what_ , but he doesn’t go snarky on Remus, instead tilts his head back, eyes begging, drags his free hand over Remus’ thigh. “Please, can I fuck you.”

Remus’ smile is faint as he bends over Sirius, touches a light kiss to his waiting lips. He likes this, likes having Sirius at his mercy. He felt so thrown months ago, descending into competitive madness within days of knowing each other. And earlier this evening he danced his Romeo, put him out into the world, and as he and Sirius sit on the bed, somewhere in Manhattan Alastor Moody is typing up his cutting review for Monday’s paper, and there’s nothing Remus can do about it.

Sirius, however.

“Yeah,” mutters Remus, and he must catch Sirius off guard when Remus pushes at his chest because he topples onto his back without resistance. “Why don’t you?” He kisses him again, and this time Sirius thrums with eagerness, rises up against him from the mattress, licks into his mouth with a groan. He has Remus by his ass and waist and with a creak of bedsprings and a tumble of bodies he gets Remus onto his back. Remus’ pulse races in his ears and he reaches up to grasp at a handful of Sirius’ hair, find his lips again, but Sirius turns his head away.

“Mm mm,” hums Sirius, gives him a peck of consolation. “Turn over.”

Remus breathes a laugh as his eyes flicker over Sirius’ face. Then he rolls over, peering behind himself to settle his legs, spread so Sirius can still kneel between. “You’ve thought about this,” he murmurs.

Sirius handles him into place, drags him back by the hips, presses Remus’ tailbone down until his legs spread to the sides at ninety-degree angles to his torso. Remus’ neck cramps looking back at Sirius, but he can’t help it.

Smoothly, Sirius says, “Of course I have.” Sirius runs his palms over Remus’ ass, spreads him, runs dry thumbs over his hole. Remus bites his lower lip, feels his skin, his whole body buzz with the aftershock of Sirius’ touch. He might have abandoned his jeans in the hallway, but Remus only notices then that Sirius reaches for a condom and lube on his nightstand that he doesn’t recognize to be his own. So he’d come prepared. He waits patiently, cheek against the pillow and shoulders strained and hunched like a lioness’, until Sirius presses a finger into him. His cock, hanging heavy between his legs, jolts suddenly and he’s at a loss for breath, eyes unfocused so his vision’s only a blur of the window that looks out onto the dark courtyard between their neighboring buildings. Sirius is slow with that finger, and Remus doesn’t know where his other hand is. He could look but he likes the idea of not, until he gives in and does and Sirius is stroking himself, head tilted with a curtain of hair over half his face.

“I’ve had ages to think about this, Remus. These last few weeks in class. This unholy arse in those goddamn tights.” Sirius’ palm, though slick and wet, comes down, squeezes at his bum. “The blue ones are my favorite, I think.”

Remus’ lidded eyes blur to darkness as he curls his fingers into his pillow, presses his forehead to it. “Sirius,” he whispers.

“I know this doesn’t hurt you. Seen you stretch like this a million fucking times.” Sirius’ finger leaves him empty. Remus, lost in a delirious dimension, feels his muscles go taut when Sirius’ fingers curl over his hip, and seconds later, as he feels him press inside, thick and latexed, stretch and fill him up again until they’re adjoined. Remus looks back at him, wonders if Sirius can feel the race of his heart now they’re connected, but loses focus as Sirius nudges his calves off the bed so Remus’ thighs effectively hug the mattress in a front split. Sirius grips at his shoulder, at his waist, so heavy but holding him so light. His thighs weigh against the backs of Remus’. “Keep those hips square, Lupin,” he teases in a whisper against the back of his ear. Remus’ arms go limp under Sirius’ pressure.

He clenches around Sirius when he shifts to get a hand under himself, hears him gasp above. His stomach sticks to the sheets with sweat. “How’s my turnout?” he breathes, moans low as Sirius moves inside him, outward just a bit.

Sirius just laughs, labored. And for all he’s supposedly thought about it, about _this_ , the way Sirius fucks Remus isn’t premeditated. He’s wired and erratic but gentle when he kisses Remus on his spine, has moments where he presses Remus flat to the mattress so he can watch as he thrusts into him and out. Sirius comes before him, but that only means that once he’s pulled out and tied off the condom and tossed it amongst the discarded shirt and towel that Remus gets to roll over and have Sirius’ head between his legs again, thighs hugged by tattooed arms. He swallows when Remus comes with a broken cry. Remus doesn’t think he’ll forget for a while how Sirius looks after he’s eased Remus’ legs off his shoulders, hair stuck to the sheen of sweat on his forehead, devilish grin on shiny lips.

Sirius goes off to the bathroom to have a piss. It gives Remus a chance to mentally regroup and catch his breath. There’s careful clamor in his kitchen, but Remus doesn’t open his eyes until Sirius is slipping in again. Opened bottle of wine in one hand, Remus’ bathrobe from the hook on the bathroom door in the other. He’s also knotted himself into Lily’s fuzzy purple bathrobe. It barely skims his knees.

“ _Red_ ,” Remus says, sitting up and accepting his own bathrobe, “is going to come after you. She’ll only wear James’ clothes if they’re clean. Because of _man sweat_.” His eyes track Sirius’ path to the window, where he struggles with the latch until he gets it open.

“Let her,” Sirius mutters, squeezing through the opening of the window out onto the fire escape. “Get out here.”

Remus follows him. He sits down on the stairs, holding back a wince, while Sirius settles onto the grate floor, leans back against the railing, gives Remus an eyeful between his relaxed legs and too-short robe. The January air is refreshingly icy on his over-warm skin. Sirius hands off the bottle of red to Remus while he produces from the pocket of the bathrobe his pack of cigarettes and lighter. Remus takes a swig from the bottle, smacks his lips at the dryness. “Close your legs,” he says, glances upward toward his northern neighbors. “You’ll get yourself arrested.”

Sirius laughs around his cigarette and crosses his legs at the ankles. “Better now than ever. Not even public nudity charges can get me down.”

Remus pinches his bathrobe shut at the base of his neck. They’re lucky the gusts of wind skate past the roofs of the buildings and don’t make it into the courtyard. He arches an eyebrow. “Because we had sex?”

“I’m basking,” says Sirius emphatically. He holds out his hand for the bottle, which Remus bequeaths to him. A gulp of wine, a drag of his cigarette, and he looks at Remus with a smirk. “Because we had sex.”

Remus drops his face to his hands. Smiles into them. “Christ.”

“Being so bendy has its —”

“Please don’t.”

Sirius groans as he stretches his legs, cracks the joints in his ankles. Remus peers at his smug face, curls the sleeves of his robe around his fingers. They share a smile.

“Remus, I have a question,” Sirius says, proffering Remus the bottle, “After I leave tonight — or tomorrow, depending on your generosity — will I go back to being your distraction?” Sirius waists a beat, then points his cigarette at Remus. “Because — because if the answer is yes, then I have a —”

“Compelling argument?” Remus chuckles.

Sirius, who’d sat up straight, sinks back against the railing. “Yes.” He sucks on the cigarette, exhales the smoke out his nose, taps off ashes. “A compelling argument as to why the answer should be no.” His expression is peculiarly grave.

Remus smiles to himself as he wraps both hands around the neck of the bottle, warming his own fingers. “Moody will write what he wants about me. It’s out of my hands.” He jiggles his foot absently, traces his toe along the edge of the stair. “ _I_ think… I think that tonight went well. And I have two more weeks of this to live up to. I need to stay concentrated, of course, eyes on the prize and whatnot, and… frankly, I think ignoring you is a bigger distraction than not.”

Sirius sits up now, cups a hand over Remus’ knee. “And!” he exclaims, eyes dancing. “And we have a sexy pas to premiere in three months’ time. Tonight, I believe, has been an educational experience, and I will walk out of this flat a better dancer, knowing my partner’s body much better than I did an hour ago. I think my education is worth continuing.”

Remus gazes at Sirius and rakes his teeth over his bottom lip. His half-smile is amused. “Was that your —?”

“Yes.”

“Your compelling argument?”

“Yes.”

Remus rises from the stairs so Sirius’ hand slides from his knee. He squats beside him, studies the tattoo on Sirius’ chest, peeking between the purple folds of Lily’s bathrobe, his parted lips, hopeful eyes.

“Was it compelling enough?” asks Sirius as Remus touches his cheek.

“It —”

“Did it compel you? Are you feeling compelled?”

Remus kisses him. Mutters, “please,” and then, “shut up,” against Sirius’ smiling lips, around his tongue. Sirius’ fingers fist the front of his bathrobe. Remus rests his forehead to Sirius’.

“I knew this was going to happen,” whispers Sirius. “I knew it when you bitched at me in the diner bathroom. Or — no, I knew when you bitched at me for being in your way backstage after your Tchaikovsky pas.”

Remus squints. “No you didn’t.”

Sirius sighs. Then chuckles, almost shrilly. “No, I didn’t. You fucking hated me for a hot minute.”

Remus shrugs. “Disappointed I couldn’t keep it up.”

“No, babe, it’s tough.” Sirius clucks with sympathy. “It’s tough when I’m this tempting.”

Remus stares straight through Sirius, then lowers himself to beside him, knees drawn to his chest. “You’re a little shit,” he says to the sky, eyes closed.

Sirius hums, as if in agreement. Seconds, minutes later, maybe, Remus feels the bite of teeth on his shoulder through the bathrobe. “Am I your first since your ex?” mumbles Sirius.

“Way to make me sound like a blushing virgin.” Sirius’ hair is silky against his neck and cheek. “But yes.” Remus hasn’t forgotten about Leon. But for months, he hasn’t needed to try to not think of him.

Sirius hums again. “And… did you fancy me? Back when we were fifteen and you watched my Prix performance online?”

Remus smirks, smacks Sirius on the thigh without cracking open an eye. _Not quite. I admired you, idolized you, beat myself up for not being like you._ “No. Did you fancy me when you indirectly stalked me by coming to Lily’s performances?”

Sirius laughs, softly. “I don’t think so. But you did make it harder to focus on the ballerina.”

“How ever did we get here.”

It’s rhetorical, and not quite a question, and Remus thinks Sirius has fallen asleep on him out there on his fire escape in the brisk cold with the fumes from Sirius’ cigarette still clouding and warming his brain, bottle of wine wedged in his lap, but Sirius must have been in thought, for he clears his throat shortly. “By means of an ill-devised plot to seduce you that got me blue balls for months.”

Remus doesn’t disagree.

***

The New York City Ballet’s 2019 Spring Gala opens with Marlene’s new work, supplemented by Balanchine’s classic _Tchaikovsky Suite No. 3._ Following the performances, the guests dine and dance at a black-tie ball with members of the company.

Which is how Remus finds himself riding post-premiere exhilaration in his dressing room, hunched over a seated Sirius who won’t quit fussing with his bowtie though Remus has already snapped at him that he’s to blame for the smudged eyeliner Remus is only trying to fix. They’re both head to toe in pressed suits, Sirius’ from a British designer desperate to maintain ties of brand loyalty despite his change of company. Once Sirius combs out the spray from his hair and it falls in enviable tresses to his shoulders, and Remus touches up the eyeliner from stage Sirius was adamant about keeping on, Remus thinks in a moment of utter juvenility and stomach-flutters — as unlike himself as could be — that he’ll undoubtedly have the most beautiful date at tonight’s ball. He doesn’t mind if Sirius outshines him offstage, because during their pas de deux earlier that evening they were equals, extensions of one another’s bodies, both the steps and Sirius under his fingers so familiar that it’s less like work and more akin to breathing, instinctual and uncontrolled, yet in theory so unusual and complex in the ways that oxygen enters the body and the bloodstream and pumps through every little bit of him. But oxygen — in this way it’s practical, predictable, keeps him alive because it must. Sirius is different, still in his bloodstream and rushing all over, but pushing and killing him ever so slowly. Killing him not like a lethal injection or drugs or illness but like old age, like time, chipping away at little bits of Remus when he’s not looking and burrowing his own bits inside, his touch and his rubbed-off mannerisms and his laugh. And Sirius does the same, takes into him those little bits of Remus he’s whittled off and keeps on whittling.

_So unlike himself._

“Someone’s having a thought,” says Sirius. Remus’ eyes widen. He caps the eyeliner pen, straightens, rolls out his shoulders.

“Sort of.” Remus tosses down the pen, turns to the mirror to do up his tie, but Sirius interferes and does it for him though Remus knows he could do it better. “Ever wonder what that’s like?”

Sirius’ tongue pokes out between his lips as he smoothes out Remus’ tie and buttons his jacket for him. “What?”

“Having thoughts.”

Sirius’ expression remains cool. “You know, I do. Can’t remember the last time I had one of those.” But he’s grinning and encircling Remus’ waist by the time Lily-or-James knocks abruptly on the door and they both burst in.

They’re both dressed by Dior for the night, the lucky bastards. Remus thinks even James’ glasses have been interchanged for Dior eyewear. Remus doesn’t fault him for the luxury; it’s as much his night as it is Marlene’s, being the man behind the original music. Lily is in a chiffon-y, pale-pink dress, almost the color of her skin.

“Jesus, Red, I really thought you were naked,” sputters Sirius. His hold is sturdy around Remus, who is content to stand against Sirius and brush off dust from his jacket.

“Well, I’m pleasantly surprised you two aren’t. We’re going to be late. The whole company’s meant to walk in together before James and Marlene. McGonagall says we’ll surprise them, all stand and applaud and rain confetti when they come in.”

Sirius releases Remus, takes hold of his hand instead. “Surprise them?” He points at James. “Potter’s literally right there.”

James smiles wryly and says, “She can’t keep secrets from me.”

Lily sighs witheringly. “He’ll be giving an Oscar-winning performance, pretending he doesn’t know.” She leans up against the door, eyes on James. “But Marlene’s a crier. She’s going to cry. And if you let it slip to her before and she walks in and we cheer and she _doesn’t_ cry, I will know.” Lily steps out of the doorway, nearly lets it close on James, who catches it before he’s crushed, and grabs Sirius by the wrist to lead them out of the dressing room like a chain of paper people. She stops in front of James, though, and kisses his cheek. As she rubs the lipstick from his skin with her manicured thumb, she murmurs, “But you’re the most talented person I know and I love you. I’m proud of you.” Lily and James exchange sweet smiles, and James lets her past into the hallway. Sirius stops in the doorway, also kisses James on his cheek, and softly clears his throat.

“Potter, mate, we’ve only known each other since September, but it feels like —”

“What are you doing, Black?” Lily cuts in.

Sirius is slow to look at her. “Are we or are we not all showering James with appreciation?“

“ _No_ ! We’re going to be _late_!”

Still caught on the dressing room side, Remus smirks and shoves Sirius out the door.

Lily huffs, looks at them all incredulously. “Thank you, Remus.” She gestures down the hall they’re meant to head down. “One foot after the other, please, gentlemen.”

“Sirius, I expect you’ll be finishing that panegyric later,” James calls after them.

“Yeah,” Sirius replies halfheartedly. “If I’m not busy.”

Lily, with her voluminous skirt bunched up in one hand as not to trip over it, frowns at Sirius. “Busy?” she mutters.

“Yeah, busy,” says Sirius, shifty.

“Doing what? We have a gala to attend. Benefactors to talk to. Instagram pictures to take. Dior wants two posts of me in this dress.”

“Doing what?” echoes Sirius. Remus sees the surreptitious glance his way and snorts. Sirius, knowing he’s been caught out, smiles full-on. “I’ll be there to give James and Marlene my love, of course. But, er, then Remus and I have an appointment.”

“Both of you,” Lily says dryly.

“Physical therapy,” Sirius offers brightly.

“That’s disgusting. It’s also a crappy alibi. Poppy’s off tonight. She’s probably down at the gala, McGonagall always invites her.” Lily shakes her head. “And again, it’s disgusting.”

Sirius laughs heartily, lets go of both their hands. “You know what’s disgusting?” Out of left field, he shoves Remus enthusiastically up against the wall, smooches across his cheek. “Oh, _James_ , you’re, like, the most _talented_ person I know!” he crows, fingers sneaking under Remus’ jacket and tickling at his stomach, likely rumpling his ghastly-expensive shirt, “Just _marry_ me already, you hipster trash fool!” Remus, pink-faced and squirming, squawks at an octave higher than he ever thought himself capable.

“I’m leaving now,” Lily says. “Just as I was beginning to forgive you for using my bathrobe.”

Tickling having ceased, kisses having slowed and dropped to his neck, Remus chuckles, knowing Sirius can feel the vibrations against his lips. “Nice going.”

“She’s not actually cross,” says Sirius, pulling back an inch. “And I’ve dealt with worse. You won’t believe it, but the first time I was backstage, watching the _Tchaikovsky Pas de Deux_ , this bloke — really fit, but a bit tetchy — not only rams right into me, but is a total dick about it.”

Remus, tongue in cheek, ducks out of Sirius’ arms. “Lily, wait up!”

Sirius’ prideful cackle echoes through the bowels of the theater.

Remus hears that sound, sees it in Sirius’ smile when he takes the seat beside Remus at the gala in the theater promenade, feels it in his chest when Sirius cringes through the dense shower of white confetti from above that settles to dot his hair like snowflakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ballets mentioned:  
> [Tarantella](https://youtu.be/sGHY9Gj9qZQ) (Marlene/Remus)  
> [Tchaikovsky Suite No. 3: Themes and Variations](https://youtu.be/8QMdrw2osTY)


End file.
